How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II
by The Flying Breadstick
Summary: Obviously a sequel, in which our heroine is confronted with the reality of grief, the possibility of fate, and the greatest question of them all: Is there such a thing as life after Jack Sparrow?
1. The Price of Happiness

**Disclaimer:** Some witty banter about how I don't own shi—

**AN:** Obviously a sequel, and one I would not recommend reading without intimate knowledge of the prequel.

Now that that's done, I'd also like to point out that this "half" of the _How My Perfect Life Was Inverted_ franchise will (hopefully) have a slightly different feel and tone to its predecessor. There'll also be the introduction of another plotline (yes, I _know_) that I'd only vaguely _hinted_ at in the prequel; basically, a lot more scene-changing/time-jumping. Remember how Janelle would randomly appear to clear up/introduce certain plot points? Well, think of those happening more regularly, only not with Janelle, and _nothing_ to do with the current plot. As a matter of fact, it's barely fan fiction, but the way I see it, if you were able to drag your way through all fifty-two chapters of the first story, then you must have somehow "clicked" with the protagonist, and I'm certain that you'll be intrigued to know what happens to her afterwards. And if not… tough.

You'll know when the scene changes occur because there'll be a page break, and then the narrative would have switched from first- to third-person. But enough rambling technicalities:

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Prologue:** The Price of Happiness_

The rain was still pelting heavily upon the timbers of the _Pearl_ when I was awakened by a gentle shaking. I furrowed my brow at this and stirred slightly, curling up on my side. My actions seemed to elicit a strange sort of a sound from the shaker; what seemed to be a chuckle of amusement, yet completely devoid of mirth. I frowned at this, burying my head further into the pillow, my senses muddled and blurred. I felt dizzy, my heartbeat an obnoxious pounding that made me wince. Someone murmured my name, gently, questioningly at first, and then louder. His voice was low, gruff, and brought to the surface of my mind fractured memories; memories of lying in this bed, kissing, touching… Kisses in the dark, some affectionate, some violent… Hazy conversations whispered by candlelight, followed by playful banters as the morning light streamed across our naked bodies… "Our" naked bodies? And that voice, with its dark, seductive timbre…

A face materialised before me, a dark face that I knew well. I smiled.

"Hello, Jack," I murmured softly, turning on the mattress and opening my eyes to see the pirate looking at me urgently. My lids felt heavy, and his features seemed to swim in and out of focus. I reached out towards him, my fingers brushing tenderly against his cheek, and saw his eyes flicker close at the ghost of a touch.

Suddenly, he jerked away, his hand pushing my fingers back to rest on the mattress.

"You have to dress," he said, and I felt his arms wrapping about me, hands resting on my back the better to lift me into a sitting position. I collapsed, my head falling to rest on his bare shoulder, my lips caressing the skin.

"_Sierra…_" he growled, almost impatiently, yet he made no attempt to push me away. I said nothing, inhaling deeply, and frowned as the sweet smell of cannabis overtook my senses. _That_ was why I'd felt so lethargic, I thought to myself, too busy attempting to piece together my memories to wonder where the drug had come from. Visions flashed before my eyes, unconnected and disjointed: crying pitifully in the rain; stumbling into his cabin, grief having long since converted into lust… There was rum, of course, liquor which burnt like acid down my throat, and then there was some red wine which had appeared in my hand from seemingly out of nowhere… _There could have been some… laudanum?_ I thought hazily to myself as I continued to nuzzle his skin, unheeding of his orders.

All I saw was an unmistakable flash of Pearl's big blue eyes, wide and intense, and then my head was spinning, and I felt my body crumble as I collapsed.

* * *

The first thing I noticed, when I had eventually regained consciousness, was how warm and soft everything was. The second was the merciless pounding of my head, and I groaned, my eyelids squeezing shut as I burrowed further into a muscular chest, mewling like a pained kitten. I felt rather than heard the chuckle of amusement that rippled through him, sighing as a hand reached up to massage my skull.

"Hello, darling," a voice murmured, low so as not to cause me further pain. I mumbled some sort of greeting into his scarred skin in return, kissing a healed wound gently before looking up into his darkened eyes.

"What happened?" I asked softly, my fingers reaching up to trace his jaw, flickering as it was in and out of shadow. Only one small, weak candle was lit, and I found it frustrating that it didn't illuminate his face as well as it should.

"You don't remember?" he replied, and followed this with a hollow smile. "Try to remember."

I closed my eyes and shook my head, tears gathering beneath my lashes as I grabbed his arms. I felt so numb and vulnerable, and I didn't want to let go of the only man in the world who knew and understood why. I heard his head fall back onto the pillow as he hissed in pain, and frowned, gently releasing his limbs, slowly realising that my nails were wet with a warm, sticky substance.

"Oh, Christ…" I heard him mutter as I opened my eyes, dragging my hand across his skin before resting on his shoulder, my fingers spread the better for me to examine my fingernails.

"Jack, you're bleeding," I told him, my quiet voice laced with concern.

"You've only yourself to blame," he replied, hand reaching up to rest upon mine, and I winced in guilt.

"What happened last night?" I asked again, and he smiled at me, gently. "Jack…" I sighed in frustration, but he wouldn't—or couldn't—answer. I pulled away from him, blearily noting that I was clad in my shift, when I was certain that I had been naked before, and looked around at my surroundings, frowning; the room, luxuriously decorated as it was, certainly didn't belong to any cabin of the _Black Pearl_. But we were on the ship, weren't we? We were, and we'd abused several substances, and had sex, and collapsed, and then… Did we wake up again? I could vaguely recall awakening to find the captain frustratingly clad, and then clumsily disrobing him, but still… and yet… I…

"Where am I?" I queried, vulnerability evident in my voice. "Jack… Where are we?" I turned back to him, my lips trembling for some unknown reason. "I thought we were on the _Pearl_; I thought…" I paused, trailing off; I was going to say that I thought he was going to take me back, but then I'd mentioned Pearl's namesake, and…

_Oh, Pearl… My little Pearl…_

_My baby…_

I looked down at my shift, tears prickling at my eyes, and whimpered. I felt Jack move closer to me, his arms wrapping about my waist, and my head fell to rest on his shoulder as my own shuddered with sobs.

"She's gone…" I whispered brokenly, uncaring of what I said or how I said it. "My little girl… She's gone…"

He shushed me, his hands rubbing my back, his breath brushing my ear as he muttered miscellaneous words of comfort.

"My baby…"

"It'll be fine, love; I'm here… It'll all be alright…"

I pulled away from him, wiping at my eyes as I looked up at him with a sniffle.

"She's your daughter…" I told him needlessly. "Pearl's your daughter, and I'm the one who…" I was unable to finish, studying his naked skin intently. "A… An… And you're bleeding…"

Jack merely shrugged his shoulders. "It's just a scratch," he said to me, his fingers reaching down to gently wrap about my wrist. "Well; several…" I watched in a sort of clingy fascination as he brought my wrist to his lips, and it was only then that I noticed the bruises. I smiled thinly.

"Looks like we both hurt each other…" I commented before looking around me again.

"_Where_ am I?" I demanded petulantly.

"Your room."

"…My room?"

"Yes," he confirmed, tucking my hair behind my ear. "In the governor's mansion… Nicolette…"

I looked at him in confusion.

"But… But we were on the _Pearl_…"

"Indeed we were."

"And I'm not… I don't… How could have known…? H-How did you get me into the governor's home when you're…?" I stuttered in a most pathetic imitation of eloquence.

He put a finger to my lips, and I fell silent.

"Don't concern yourself with the minor details," he advised me, his tone one of love. "You've had a… You've been through a fair bit of—"

"The footman!"

He halted in his speech, looking at me in confusion. "What? Sierra, what's wrong?" he added worriedly as I clung to his arm.

"There was a coachman!" I gibbered wildly, my eyes widening in panic, tears streaming down my face. "The driver—when I went to see you, I was in a carriage, and I had an accent, and I told him to wait for me whilst I went for a walk and now I haven't returned and it's well past an hour and if he followed he'd have seen me with you and realise that I'm _not_ Nicolette and then what will happen to me? I mean, I don't know anyone, I have no friends or family to turn to and the only thing that I can do—"

His lips caught my own in a gentle kiss, but I didn't let my eyes slip close, choosing instead to keep them open—as did he. We stared at each other for a long moment, reading each other as best we could, and for once his emotions were not covered by a fathomless mask. Love and pain and grief and a sort of frail, reluctant tenderness came together in a darkened dance as I felt his tongue softly trail across my lower lip; gently, my lips parted, welcoming the comforting, familiar taste of his mouth as my tongue slid teasingly across his own, and I heard a sort of guttural purr as his lashes flickered shut. With a heavy heart, I followed suit, and soon I was lost in the sensations.

When he pulled away, at long last, it was with a heavy sort of sigh, and I found myself reaching up to touch him, tracing his beard.

"What's your coachman look like, then?" he asked at long last.

"Tall, and black—he's a slave, I'm sure… He had a livery, of green, dark green, and a wig—it was powdered; um… He had a strong accent…"

"He's a slave, you say?" Jack asked me sharply, and I nodded.

"Well, he's black, with an accent, so yes, I'm certain. Why?"

Jack held my gaze for a moment longer, looking at me intensely.

"I'll talk to your footman," he reassured me quietly. "And he shan't expose you as a charlatan, you've my word on that."

"But Jack…" I began, suddenly fearful; for me, for him, for the footman… "What would you do to convince him otherwise?"

Jack caught the panic in my voice, and rushed to reassure me.

"Being a slave, he'll hate his master," he told me. "All I need do is imply his master's young French niece is… involved with a common rake and have him keep his own silence, waiting for you to fall and disgrace said master's good name—which you better _not_ do," he added sharply, looking down at me intently. "No, Sierra, I'm serious—I won't be coming back for you, I can't pick up any pieces you—"

He stopped at the look I was giving him, and sighed. "What's wrong now?"

"Are… Are you really never… not going to see me again?" I asked him apprehensively. "Not even going to try?"

I saw him hesitate, and my clumsily-repaired heart began to crack once more.

"Oh darling, don't make me promise that which I've no inclination to keep."

"But… But I can't live—like this… And," I added suddenly, masochist that I was, "And won't you miss me… just a little bit?"

He paused, looking at me critically. "Yes," he decided softly. "Yes, I rather think I will."

I bowed my head, the tears still coursing down my cheeks.

"I can't believe that you're still… And with Pearl gone, and me being so…" I looked up at him from under my lashes. "Jack, I need to have someone. Someone who will g-guard and pro-protect me…"

Jack grinned at me slightly, tilting my head up and giving me a slight peck.

"I know, my love," he said to me, his voice having long ago lost that slur, becoming far more cultured than anyone would ever have given him credit for.

At that very moment, there came a sudden, sturdy rapping on my door. I shrank away, grabbing Jack's arm to prevent him from leaving the mattress.

"Jack! What if it's the guards, and they've found you?"

He merely shot me an incredulous look.

"Do you honestly think they'll have the common decency to knock first?"

I narrowed my eyes at him even as I dabbed at them with a sleeve whilst Jack strolled leisurely across the room, pausing only to slip on his shirt and pick up his pistol, priming the weapon as he went. Cautiously, he slipped the door open a crack—a lesson he may have learnt merely today (or was it last night?), because the last time he'd swung the door open, he had found—

_No,_ my mind said to me in warning. _No: don't go there, girl._

"Sierra," Jack said to me, his voice quiet but cheerily bright, "it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you your _French_ lady's maid, J—"

"_What_?" I interrupted, uncertain of what I had heard, and saw him scowl as he pushed the door gently closed behind the female stranger with her lowered head, hair covered by a white cap.

"Your lady's maid, Je—"

"My lady's maid?"

"Aye," he confirmed, a note of irritation colouring his voice. "All great ladies have them, I'll have you know. Now may I please introduce this sad, pathetic creature? Thank you." Clearing his throat, he straightened slightly, and with a dramatic flourish, intoned, "I present to you Jeanne-Louise-Françoise-Marianne-Cosette-Christine-Victoire-Justine-Antoinette-Danielle-Coralie-Clémence-Marguerite-Henriette-Éponine-Sophie-Diane-Juliette-Hélène-Flavie-Na—Bugger this," he gave up with a dark scowl. "It's only Flavio."

I simply stared at him.

"…Flavio?"

"In a cunning and subtle disguise, of course," he informed me, clearly pleased with himself.

"…Disguised?"

"Aye; bewigged, befrocked, and behaving. _Aren't_ you?" he added dangerously to the transvestite in the cheap dress, and the man nodded vigorously. "Good queer little sodomite," he complimented before turning back to me with a grin. "So, what do you think?"

"…What do I _think_?" I repeated, unable to respond.

"That's right; I know you've always liked him, sweet, misguided, kind-hearted wench that you are at heart."

I just stared at the pair of them for a moment longer.

"Um…" I began, looking from one man to one that may have been a man and back again. "Is he supposed to be my… guardian angel?"

Jack merely shrugged. "Guardian angel, fairy godmother… Some feminine occupation along those lines, yes," he agreed, still looking at me expectantly.

"I… I, um… I honestly don't know what to say…"

Jack simply smiled at me. "I know, love," he said gently, and I watched with a heavy heart as he donned what remained of his garments. He didn't come back to the bed, where I still sat, watching the scene unfold, but his eyes stayed glued to my own.

"So…" he said to me casually when he was done, his hat in his hand. He looked at me, tenderly, and smiled sadly.

"I suppose this really _is_ goodbye, isn't it?" I asked him, and he inclined his head in a nod.

"Keep your hands to yourself!" he snapped unexpectedly at Flavio, who froze, a clawed hand outstretched at some point behind Jack's back. Pulling his coat protectively about himself, the rogue gave me a mock salute when I blew the captain a kiss, and was about to leave, had it not been for Flavio's insistent tugging on the pirate's coat.

"_Yes_?" he asked abruptly, impatient to desert the house, converse with the footman, and be on his merry way into the sunset.

"My reward?" the 'woman' asked childishly. "You promised me that—"

"Yes, that I did," Jack snapped, a little too hurriedly, it seemed to me, and I knitted my eyebrows together at this.

"No!" Flavio whinged, stamping his foot as the captain attempted to escape. "Now! I want it _now_! You promised me _now_!"

"Flavio, please calm—"

"NOW!" the man half-shrieked, half-bellowed, and Jack, clearly fearing a discovery, allowed his hat to fall to the floor as he buried one hand in Flavio's golden scalp and wrapped the other around his waist, bringing his lips to the younger man's in a hurried, false mockery of a kiss.

My jaw dropped, and I simply stared as Flavio kissed fervently back, hands reaching up to rest on either side of the pirate's face, clearly to prevent the thief from pulling away later on. And try to pull away Jack did, with relatively little success, which resulted in him making grunts of alarm with comically widened eyes for several side-splittingly long minutes.

Eventually, Flavio's grip slackened, and Jack rudely pushed the light-headed and giggling creature away even as he brought a hand to cover his lips, making retching noises of distaste. "You've the tongue of a…" he was able to cough, but was unable to finish. Hastily, he snatched up his hat, and placed it firmly above his red headscarf, a hand reaching down to rest on the hilt of his sword as he shot Flavio a warning look, my own presence having long been forgotten.

"Oh, Jack?" I called out, my voice mildly flirtatious, as he started forwards, towards the door. The pirate paused, swivelling slightly to look at me with a curiously tilted head. I beamed at him, somewhat falsely.

"Don't _I_ get a goodbye kiss?" I pouted, waiting for the obvious response.

For a moment, Jack simply stared at me, his mouth falling open once more, much like what had occurred when I had kissed Cate. And then his handsome, tanned face broke into a smile, and he shook his head, chuckling light-heartedly.

"'That _was_ your goodbye kiss,'" he threw back at me, and I smiled in spite of myself.

* * *

It was a bitter autumn wind that blew Sierra's dark hair into her face, causing her to impatiently push the locks haphazardly back and adjust her coat. She was walking down Wardour Street, in Soho, walking swiftly, steadily south, pass Peter Street, pass Meard Street, her eyes stinging from the arctic wind. Her hands were full, carrying several bags of clearly-labelled designers' items ranging from the aesthetic to the expensive to the downright inconvenient. (Now really, when was she _ever_ going to wear an edible thong? Those sort of "deviancies" could only _really_ be practised with a steady and somewhat reliable boyfriend, _not_ the emotionless, mostly unsatisfying sex in which she now most regularly participated in with men who were as good as strangers.)

She hadn't bought or worn clothes so luxurious in six, seven years, and now that she'd turned her hand to a very _rewarding_ profession, she found herself in a position to pay a visit to her beloved and dearly missed Oxford Street, where she'd spent the day buying her happiness. It was odd how her happiness came in the form of shoes, dresses, various lingerie and a gorgeous Swarovski necklace as opposed to the traditional labour, kittens, children and charity; hence how the total cost of Sierra's happiness amounted to a diamond-studded arm and leg, when there would have indubitably been less of a strain on her debit cards had she taken the traditional approach… And yet she found that she didn't much care.

But now her day-long session of retail therapy was at an end, and after it was successfully concluded, she had found herself turning away from the various tube stations and walking back down a street she rarely—if ever—visited. She honestly had no idea why she was strolling hurriedly along it now, and she felt as though she ought to turn back, but some strange force of nature—or perhaps it was just the wind—urged her onwards, ever closer to a cheap, vaguely pretentious pub with _The Intrepid Fox_ stamped above the darkened windows.

For a moment, she paused, ignoring the wind at her back, and stood still, staring up at the bright golden lettering, her blue eyes taking in the looming gargoyle gruesomely illuminated by the green light strategically placed beneath that crouching figure. She didn't feel fear, of course, but there did lurk in the pit of her stomach a sense of… _trepidation_.

_Oh, sweet irony; how I love thee,_ she thought with a shadow of a smile as her eyes flickered over the word _Intrepid_ once more.

She wasn't going to go in, of course she wasn't; it was not, and had never been, a place for a girl like her, even in her most rebellious stages. And yet, there she stood, compelled by the golden lettering that swirled across the uncluttered background like sunlight would dance across a sea of blood.

_It's so dark,_ she thought, her eyes roving across the hunchbacked gargoyle once more, noting how it seemed to leer down at her, and shivered. _And so obviously, undeniably satanic; so why am I…?_

_Damn those BBC bastards, with their "local news reports,"_ she thought in a moment of uncharacteristic (or so she believed) savagery.

This was stupid; this really, truly was utterly and compellingly _stupid_: and why was she still staring at the name? Her feet were not moving her forward, nor were they rooting her to the spot; rather, she was slowly backing away, not in fear, but in—

"You saw the feature too, then?"

The voice came from behind her, seemingly mere inches away; the familiarity of the tone, the amused warmth in his casual words, sending shivers down her spine, and she'd spun, her blue eyes widening as they fell upon him, somehow giving off the impression of being casually dressed, though clad as he was in a dark suit. If Sierra was to be completely honest with herself, she wouldn't have been surprised to see him there; if she was _really_ honest, she'd have admitted that she was _hoping_ he would appear.

But Sierra could never be an honest person when it suited her, and instead wrote off the tingling of her skin as a side effect from the late autumn cold.

"I couldn't help but find the headline laughable," he continued to drawl, stepping closer yet maintaining a respectful distance between the two of them. "'Goth pub closes after two-hundred-and-twenty-two years.'"

She smiled at him then; thinly, it seemed to her, and attempted to shrug with the fruits of her shopping still clenched in her tightly-clutched hands.

"The BBC are more known for their government bias than originality," she reminded him, suddenly aware that not once in the afternoon had she re-applied her makeup. He moved closer still, and she was overcome with the urge to offer him her hand to shake—but too late! his lips were already pressing against her cheek, and she prayed to all who cared that he couldn't taste the powder, which she was absolutely _certain_ was dry and flaking… This was what happened when one partook in a shopping spree without planning any touch-ups beforehand.

The contact was brief, and friendly, but not overly so, and yet Sierra was shivering. He noticed her discomfort, and smirked in triumph, but held himself back from commenting. His hand moved upwards, hovered hesitantly, before gently resting on her upper arm, rubbing the limb soothingly, and she found her eyes falling to rest on his bare fingers as they gently massaged the covered skin.

"It's been a few years, hasn't it?" he asked her, and she noticed how he was gently turning her so that she now stood beside him, his arm slinging about her shoulders. She knew she should be protesting, but she wasn't.

_And it's not surprising, really; Jack's gone. And even if he was here, he probably wouldn't give a shit._

And with this bitter thought happily concluded, she found herself wanting to kiss him. But she didn't, of course; he wasn't her boyfriend anymore, and after what she'd done to him, and what _he'd_ done before _that_, he never would be again.

No matter how much she wanted it.

"Shall we?" he asked as he gently steered her towards the partly-open door, even though the decision had already been made; yet still she nodded her acquiescence, more out of politeness than consent. And then she looked up at him and smiled.

"So how have you been, Steve?"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** I'm not actually certain whether marijuana was used as a recreational drug in the eighteenth century, although there have been references to it being smoked by the Assyrians, some Sanskrit texts proclaiming it as a "plant to be revered," and whatnot, and Jack's travelled quite a bit, and it's artistic bloody licence, so why don't you put that in your pipe and smoke it? (Literally or otherwise.)

The Intrepid Fox is a real London pub that has recently been closed; it was known for its gothic music/culture/patrons, and in addition to ornamental gargoyles, also boasted a less childish Halloween-esque décor all year round.


	2. Birdsong

**AN:** Let's play a game: Spot the Foreshadowing… And don't forget to pat Flavio on the head for his uncharacteristic selflessness!

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter One:** Birdsong_

The bed I slept in was warm and soft and inviting, to such an extent that I flatly refused to surface from the covers, not even when Flavio poked at me with a worried finger some point in the late afternoon.

"Sedano?" I heard him whisper, curiously, cautiously. I felt his warm, sweet-scented breath brushing my forehead, and frowned, my head still sore from the previous night.

"I've brought you food," he offered when I made no attempt to respond. I grunted and turned over, rolling away from him. "Sedano? Please wake up? Look—Look, Sierra; apples!" he said suddenly, a little louder, and I groaned as the mattress creaked with his extra weight, wrinkling my nose as he leaned over to press the smooth firm fruit against my lips.

"Go away," I moaned, and heard him deflate.

"Sedano? You haven't eaten all day, you know; it's very unhealthy."

"Well, that's because I haven't been awake all day, isn't it?" I grunted back, pulling a pillow over my head in an attempt to block him out. He simply huffed in annoyance, prodding me irksomely in the back, and I tried to kick him.

"Now that's not very nice," he whined, pulling the pillow easily from out of my weak, futile grip. I felt his fingers, long and slender and slightly callused from work at sea, grip me firmly by the chin, and then he was forcing me to turn, his other hand grabbing my hip to stop me from turning back. Despite myself, my eyes slowly, sleepily opened, and I winced as daylight attacked my pupils, causing me to cry out in pain.

"There, there…" I heard him shush, stroking my hair hesitantly. I frowned at this action, uncertain of what to make of this display of tenderness; my body stiffened, unaccustomed as it was to such platonic warmth, but even as I opened my mouth, he hushed me in my protest. I merely laid there, my body entangled in the bed sheets, unable to open my dreadfully sensitive eyes.

"How are you?" I heard him query, sensing a shadow pass across my eyelids. Groaning, I warily flickered my eyes open, blinking as a pale palm came into focus. With considerable effort, I tore my eyes away from the calluses and slender, delicate veins, forcing myself to focus on the wide violet orbs behind them.

"You've been playing dress up," I accused with a weak smile as my gaze drifted to the lace-trimmed gown he wore. "And your hair…" I began, fingers trembling as I reached to touch one of the golden curls that had fallen across one of his eyes. Flavio's other hand, the one which had rested on my waist, gently wrapped about my wrist, silently telling me not to exert myself.

"What have I been doing last night, Flavio?" I asked of him quietly as he continued to shield my eyes. "I feel… I feel so…" I floundered hopelessly. "I don't know, but it's… tiring and… and confusing and…"

"Hush now, Sierra," Flavio advised me. "You've got a fever; it's time you sit up and have something to eat."

His words washed over me, and at first I merely accepted them as unquestioningly as I'd accepted his apple, leaning against the headboard and biting obediently into the red orb.

"How did I get a fever?" I murmured to him once I'd swallowed enough of the apple for him to declare me sufficiently nourished.

The man merely shrugged. "I don't know," he confessed. "You were out in the rain all night, you know; and then you went and did some very very naughty things in Jackia's cabin."

I had enough strength to narrow my eyes at him, but didn't pursue the matter.

"Where is Jack?" I questioned as he dabbed at my forehead with a handkerchief.

"I don't know," Flavio told me honestly. "I just know that before he went to wherever he now is, he practically _forced_ me to plant upon him a parting kiss—My, if it had gotten any further, I'd have had him—arrested for attempted rape, of course."

"What? No, he… Never mind," I sighed, looking up at him in gentle disapproval. "And you, Flavio?" I queried. "How am I explain your sudden presence?"

Flavio merely shrugged. "I was one of your fellow passengers what was rescued alongside Your Ladyship," he said to me patronisingly. "When we reached Kingston, we parted ways; you to your brother, and I in search of—"

"Where _is_ Nicolette's brother?" I interrupted. "I've not seen him from the moment I've set foot in this house."

"I believe that he is in the town, doing some very very naughty things with some very very naughty females not entirely dissimilar to those which you yourself did inside Jackia's cabin," the man said to me flippantly.

"You mean you think he's in a brothel?" I summarised, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Have you any legitimate reason to suspect that?"

"The other man said so… The ugly effeminate one in blue who walked in this morning with very very naughty intentions in mind."

I was instantly alert, and tried to sit up, but found that my lethargy rendered this a near impossible notion.

"Was his name Paul, by any chance?"

"Really? Oh, I thought it was _Saul_. Or Bob."

"Flavio…" I groaned, reaching up to cover my lips as I coughed slightly. "Flavio, stop that; you _know_ that this is important. If he finds out who we really are, then…" I trailed off uncertainly.

"Oh, Sedano…" I heard him sigh, his fingers resuming their gentle caress. "Paul and I have met a long, long time ago."

This didn't serve to calm my fears in the slightest, which I suspected had been Flavio's intention. However, I felt far too exhausted to shout or scream or in any way react, and simply settled for muttering, "Oh, fuck."

"I remember it well…" Flavio sighed, and I didn't have to look up to know that he was gazing longingly into the distance. "'Twas the night before Christmas, one sultry Parisian summer; I was a mere matchbox girl, and he—"

"_Flavio,_" I said warningly, and he huffed.

"It _was_ Paris," he assured me. "When his family were still living in England. He was a boy of fifteen, and I, an experienced pagegirl of seventeen, eighteen years."

"Page_girl_?"

"Yes, that's right."

"They don't exist."

"That's what _you_ think. Now, may I please continue? _Grazzie._ As I was saying, his family were living in dear old London, and one fine summer, when he was a virgin of fifteen, he accompanied his family to attend the wedding of his cousin on his mother's side."

"Was her name Adélaïde, by any chance?" I asked sharply.

"Why yes, as a matter of fact, it was. How did you know?"

I looked up at him from under my lowered lashes. There must have been something in my gaze which disturbed him, as he seemed to shift in discomfort, but I didn't dwell on this action; God alone knows why he did what he did when he did.

"Something Paul said to me when I first met him… That the last time 'we' saw each other was six years ago at Adélaïde's wedding."

"Yes, when she married _her_ second cousin on her stepfather's side; my master's nephew."

I tried to raise my eyebrows at this.

"Your master?"

"Yes; I told you, at this time I was a page."

"A _page_? A page as in… an apprentice squire?"

"Don't be so mediaeval," Flavio scoffed. "A page as in an apprentice footman."

"You mean…" I began before breaking off, laughing. "You mean an _errand boy_?"

"Of course not," Flavio snapped. "I was much more than that to the count; I was—" And he stopped. I turned to look at him, my smile fading.

"You were his… mistress, weren't you?" I began hesitantly.

"Since I was thirteen, although then, he treated me more as son than a lover," he told me, and I raised my eyebrows at the change in his voice; it had lost its high falsetto, and instead was gentle, and soft, and hurt… or was it pity? Hesitantly, I reached out to place my hand on his skirt-covered thigh in what I'd hoped was a comforting gesture.

"Back to Paul," I pushed subtly. Last night had left me emotionally drained, and though I was curious, my grief over Pearl had left me raw and tired, and though it was heartless of me to think it, I honestly felt as though I didn't need another's angst alongside my own. With a slight sniffle, I pushed Pearl's wide blue eyes to the back of my mind, and chose instead to concentrate on Flavio's words.

I don't think I'd ever seen Flavio so honest before; he was always fun, and amusing, and a welcome distraction from the numerous unpleasantries I was forced to endure, but I'd never thought of him as honest. But he was honest then; he told me of how he'd caught a glimpse of Paul at the docks, and how his heart went out to this awkward, skinny, lost-looking creature; how he'd approached the boy later that week, for they were both staying at the most extensive of the Évignons' châteaux, Le Plessis, in Loire. Flavio had befriended him, and at first he had intended for them to remain just that, but within a week…

"Well, I'm irresistible," he informed me modestly.

"But he can't have—I mean, I've not known him for very long, but he's always hitting on—always grabbing me and 'flirting' with me."

"To a sickening and ineffective extent?" Flavio guessed. "With all the seductive persuasion of a bed-ridden slug?"

I stared at him, mouth opening before hurriedly closing it again and covering my lips as another cough threatened to erupt.

"Oh, wow," I groaned once the coughing had subsided. "Um, I… I'm… sleepy."

There was a pause at this as Flavio gaped at me; clearly, he hadn't encountered a person who found his tales so tedious they immediately closed their eyes and sunk into a deep, peaceful slumber. I smiled apologetically, murmured words of how I did in fact find his anecdote intriguing, but that I would much rather close my eyes and rest now, and after a pat on his hand, sank back into the mattress.

"That's not fair!" he burst out, hands pawing at the covers.

"I'm sorry; but I'm just so tired…"

"_Sierra…_" he whined, but I shook my head.

"Flavio, please," I groaned, screwing my eyes tightly shut and turning away, a pillow pulled over my head, "Just leave me be."

* * *

When I awoke again, I saw immediately that it was well past twilight, with only a feeble candle providing illumination. The second thing I noticed was the warm, gentle breath tickling at my neck. Frowning at this, I opened my eyes, and turned my head as much as I could to look curiously down.

"Oh, Flavio…" I sighed as he released an inelegant snore. He'd positioned my arm so that it was wrapped about his shoulders, and I couldn't help but notice that he was still dressed in the rose-coloured gown I had seen him in earlier. I frowned at this, wondering how the creature could possibly have fallen asleep in such stiff clothing.

"Are you awake?" I asked of him. "Flavio?"

The man's forehead seemed to furrow, and he sighed slightly, burrowing his head further into my shoulder.

"Hey," I murmured softly, reaching up to tug insistently on his sleeve. "Flavio…"

The man breathed in deeply before exhaling, and I saw his eyes slowly open.

"_See!_" he snapped at me, although I could tell that he was still drowsy. "_I_ wake up when asked. It's only polite."

I apologised as sincerely and profusely as I could manage in my light-headed state, shifting to the edge of the mattress as he sat up and yawned, shaking his head.

"I know that this isn't the appropriate time… or the place, for that matter," I added, looking disparagingly down at the bed that we shared. "And I know that you probably can't answer any of my questions, but…"

"But…?" Flavio questioned when I trailed off, drawing closer, and I inhaled deeply before looking up at him.

"Pearl," I said simply. "Do you know what happened to her? Do you know how she…?"

Flavio was silent, and I saw, even in the dim light, that his eyes were large and sorrowful.

"I… I heard on the docks," he began softly, "although—although I'm not certain, that… Well, there was supposedly an accident; a cart—the horse, it—it was scared, somehow, and it ran riot, and… there was supposedly a little girl, who—Oh, Sierra; I'm so sorry…"

I closed my eyes at his quiet words and clung to his arms, fresh tears welling up behind my eyelids. What I wanted, really, was to push him away and scream at him to cease his cruel lies, to tell him—to tell myself—that it wasn't true, that Pearl was alive and well and will somehow find me and sneak into my room and I'll find her curled up in the bed when I wake up in the morning, and—

"She was picking up her necklace…"

The words slipped quietly out of my mouth without my ever realising I had ever spoken them. "When I saw her body, her hand, it was clenched, and—She was just picking her necklace up… Her father gave it to her… It meant so much to her… She just wanted to pick it up…"

"There, there…"

"The necklace, it was just—It was all so innocent—She was so innocent… Why did she…? Why—Why her? She was so… so innocent… so sweet and innocent—And she was just a child… Just a child…"

Flavio pulled me closer to him, kissing and stroking my hair and murmuring miscellaneous words of comfort, and after an eternity of weeping, I willingly returned into the arms of sweet oblivion.

* * *

It seemed oddly bright, I remember thinking as I walked through the uncut emerald grass in my long white dress, my hair loose and tumbling from under the hat that protected my eyes from the blinding light of the sun. So bright and colourful, the meadow, which was an old-fashioned English summer meadow that seemed to stretch for an infinity all around me, flat and unchanging. There appeared to be no visible trees from where I serenely walked, no clouds above me, only the green grass and the yellow sun and the unbreakable blue sky that seemed to reach out, to grasp for eternity.

A slight breeze pulled at my hair, causing my skirts to flutter about my legs, and in the unmeasured distance to my left, I thought I heard birdsong. My footsteps slowed, but did not cease, and I turned my head, curious, as a handful of tiny specks appeared from the perpetual azure of the vast sky.

_Birds,_ I remember thinking, somewhat calmly, and stopped my languorous stroll to watch as they circled closer, smiling softly; small, unremarkable little creatures, these birds were, feathers an unexceptional shade of brown, but I recognised what they were, and they made me smile.

Sparrows.

One of them, slight and agile, seemed to be the leader of the small flock, and with a slight turn of his graceful wings, silently directed them towards me. I felt no fear as they descended about me, laughing as I felt them experimentally peck at my hat. One of them, the leader, I think, flew to hover before my face, black eyes looking curiously at me before fluttering suddenly to the brim of my bonnet, which he attempted to push off. I remained perfectly still, watching with a detached curiosity as he soared up again, again, again, falling back each and every time. Finally, he let out a chirp that could be interpreted as an angry foul-beaked curse, ordering the other birds to follow his example.

Minutes later, my hat had drifted to rest on the grass behind me and, as though silently dismissed, the flock flew up, taking easily to the sky, and vanished into the unending horizon, the excited flapping of their wings inviting my hair to dance.

All but one, the leader.

I watched curiously as he turned tail and flew a few feet away from me, only to change his mind and fly back, where he hovered, examining my face. I noticed how his eyes drifted to rest on my bodice, and he seemed to chirrup in approval, causing me to smile and laugh. The sparrow paid no heed to my chuckles, choosing to fly behind me, unabashedly studying me at every angle before flittering to hover before me once more.

We stared at one another for a few more moments before I slowly raised my arm, opening my palm invitingly. The bird flew without hesitation to rest in my hand, looking up at me trustingly, tweeting happily. I watched, fascinated, as he slowly lowered his head so that his beak was pressing gently against my skin in what I realised was a kiss. I smiled and, gently bringing my hand closer, brushed my lips briefly against his bent head before pulling slowly away. He straightened and chirped in appreciation, looking up at me in unconditional adoration. My smile widened, and I slowly raised my other hand so that I might stroke and pat his little head and his small, soft back.

The sparrow closed his eyes, chirruping in contentment, and I heard his voice whisper softly into my ear,

_I could stay here forever._

I smiled again at his words, looking tenderly down at his closed, trusting eyes, and carefully drew my stroking fingers back.

_Yes,_ I thought sadly in reply. _And so could I._

And I closed my fingers suddenly about his tiny form, my hand easily turning into a tightly clenched fist. I felt his body tremble, shudder, attempt to flitter in panic, heard his small, sweet voice twitter in alarm, rising in pain as my grip tightened. I heard rather than felt the cracking of his little bones, crunching like dry twigs. He continued to cry out, cries that became louder, frenzied, before slowly fading, becoming weaker, feebler…

And stopped.

There was only silence in the meadow now; even the light wind that ruffled the grass didn't make a sound. A warm, wet liquid seemed to gather in my closed palm, and as I watched in a cold, eerie detachment, living blood trickled from between my closed fingers, running down my arm and staining my dress red.

Slowly, I brought my hand closer to my lips, and gave my knuckles a mocking goodbye kiss.

**-x!x-**


	3. Lady Macbeth

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Two:** Lady Macbeth_

I woke up screaming.

For a moment, I was unaware of where I actually was, or what I was doing there; in my mind's eye, the meadow was still as bright and uncompromising as it had been in my dream, and like Lady Macbeth, my hands were slick with the accusing stain of scarlet blood.

"Oh," I gasped in broken whispers. "Oh, oh, _oh_." And I put my clean white hands to my face as sobs of relief threatened to wrack my sweating body. "Oh God, oh God, oh God…"

"Ow…" a voice whined, and I turned to see a delicate hand reach up to grab at the mattress. The fingers grasped loosely at the sheets in inevitable futility before splaying wide in a sort of resigned support. Moments later, a sleepy, dishevelled blond head popped up from beyond the bed, violet eyes blinking in hurt confusion.

"You kicked me out of bed," Flavio whimpered, childish petulance colouring his tone. "You mean, mean, _mean_ Flavio-hater!" And with this he released his hold on the rumpled sheets to cross his arms, deliberately turning away from me in a resentful huff.

I opened my mouth to apologise, but only a strangled sob sputtered forth. Flavio reached up to rub sleepily at a violet eye, and cautiously queried what was wrong. The bright, oddly colourful nightmare was still vivid in my mind, and, still speechless, I merely shook my head, carefully pushing the covers off of my body and pulling down the hem of my shift, which had ridden up to rest upon my hips. My toes reached hesitantly down to touch the hard, smooth floorboards, as though afraid that they would melt and crumble beneath my weight. The planks remained promisingly solid and unyielding, and with a sudden feeling of weariness, I allowed the soles of my feet to follow the path of my toes.

The dream had not yet faded from my memory; when I walked, I walked upon the soft, yielding caress of grass; the breeze that fluttered from the open balcony doors had a hint of English lavender and wildflower, and the sparrows' playful twittering echoed in my ears.

I could still feel the blood on my hands, scorching my skin in vengeance of my unpardonable sin.

_Murderer._

I closed my eyes and continued my slow, dreamlike steps, walking to the balcony and into the white fire of the Caribbean sun. In that moment, the chains of my dream were shattered; gone was the imagined birdsong, the meadow's tender grass, the soft, fragile scent of English flowers.

But the weighty touch of blood still remained.

_Out, damned spot; out, I say!  
…Will these hands ne'er be clean?_

_Here's the smell of blood, still._

"Flavio," I said at long last, my fingers continuously clenching and unclenching as I stared out into the bay. "Prepare a bath for me. Lay some simple clothes out on the bed. Get me some breakfast."

"Say 'please,'" he sniffed, and I closed my eyes.

"You're my maid now, Flavio," I snapped, my voice quiet and harsh. "Do as I say."

There was only silence between us, and with a terrifying feeling of detachment, I turned to see him looking at me in curiosity.

"_Flavio_…" I reminded with an irritation that I did not in all honesty feel. He held my gaze for a moment longer before turning and scuttling away. I, for my own part, turned back to look out at the balcony, studying my new home whilst unconsciously wringing my hands.

_Out, damned spot; out I say!_

It suddenly seemed very ironic that, as a fourteen year old girl, I had been assigned the role of Lady Macbeth in a drama class.

* * *

"How now, what news?" Georgie concluded her exaggerated speech in such a way that it set the other girls in their group of six laughing.

Sierra, for her own part, took the role a little more seriously, and, with a straight back and supercilious stare, intoned softly, "He has almost supped; why have you left the chamber?"

Georgie blinked, thrown off guard as she was; Sierra's expression was on the mark, but surely her words should have been played with a little more… harshness?

"Oh hell, I've forgotten my lines," the girl announced, looking down at her book, and Sierra's face broke into a long-suffering grin.

"Someone else should play Macbeth," she said, abandoning the scene completely and moving to sit on the chair, crossing her legs in order to show off her slender calves and short skirt to whatever lesbians may be present. "Ally, why don't you have a go?"

"Oh no," the bottle blonde replied. "You know I can't act; I can't wait until next year, when I can _finally_ give Drama the finger."

"Shakespeare's boring, anyway," Georgie agreed, making a show of throwing the text down and jumping manically on it before coming to sit with the other five. "And what's more, the exam's not for another three weeks."

"Two and two days," Sierra corrected automatically, glancing at their drama teacher before surreptitiously undoing the top three buttons of her blouse. "But I suppose we can always adlib, can't we? I mean, Bernhardt _did_ say to reinterpret the text—What time is it?" she asked abruptly, and Harry checked her watch.

"Forty minutes left," she replied, and the other girls released a collective groan.

"Y'know…" Sierra began, glancing to see that the teacher was out of hearing, "It's not so bad out, and this is the last lesson of the day; we can always climb out of the window."

The other five tittered amidst exclamations of "_What!_" "You're kidding!" "In _this_ skirt?"

"Look, it's easy," Sierra explained, shoving Macbeth into her bag and moving to one of the large windows. "We're on the ground floor, they haven't finished installing the cameras yet, and the gate's just _there_. We're obviously not going to be doing any acting, so how about a little shopping? Bond Street's only a Tube ride away…"

"I somehow think Mrs. Bernhardt will notice if six girls suddenly disappeared from her class," Frankie observed critically.

"Mrs. Bernhardt is senile," Sierra scoffed. "Look, I've done it before—" She fell silent as she saw the woman come towards them, and immediately set about opening the window.

"It's a little hot in here," she said matter-of-factly to the woman, who nodded and asked them to perform what they had achieved so far. Georgie forgot her lines again, prompting Sierra to abruptly switch roles, and with a short, analytical critique punctuated by exasperated sighs of "Oh, Georgiana," concluding in a weary "And for the last time, keep your blouse buttoned up, Sierra," the woman moved on to seek out her next prey.

"Okay," Sierra said after five minutes. "She's not going to come talk to us again; do what you want, but _I'm_ going." And she abruptly dropped her bag out of the window before swinging her legs over the sill and ducking down moments before Mrs. Bernhardt's head turned towards their group.

"I'm dropping this lesson anyway," Ally shrugged, grabbing her own bag and following suit. She was rewarded with Sierra's grateful smile.

"My mother is a social climber, as you well know," Georgie said next, having already zipped up her own bag. "When she found out you attended my school, she turned to me and said, 'That de Victoire girl? Never leave her side!' So where Sierra goes, I am inextricably bound to follow," and with a slight puckering of her lips, she joined the other two.

The three remaining sycophants looked at one another, and then at the window, where the other three girls waited expectantly. Sierra quirked an elegant eyebrow, and with a misleadingly civil but unmistakably commanding "_Well?_" they followed.

* * *

Two hours later, and Sierra and Georgie were picking their way through the London throng, having long since shaken off the other four girls thanks in no small part to Georgiana's stroke of genius. The darker of the pair was busy pulling and tugging at her light coat, attempting to force her purse into the pocket, whilst Georgie nattered incessantly about a miscellany of events that Sierra had deemed unimportant to hear.

"…but I suppose you'll be spending the weekend with Julian, huh?" she mentioned casually, and Sierra started at the mention of her boyfriend's name.

"I… I don't know," she stuttered, caught off guard. "Probably. Why?"

The girl shrugged. "Oh, nothing," she said. "It's just that Angie—you know Angie, don't you? My cousin; the one who ran off with her girlfriend to join the circus a couple of years back?"

"The lesbian contortionist, right?"

"Yeah, her; anyway, Angie's having a Halloween party, but I guess you'd rather curl up on your couch and cling tightly to Julian's arm all night, wouldn't you?" she said with a grin.

Sierra made a noncommittal shrug. "It'll be my birthday soon, won't it?" she asked. "I don't know; I might have something else planned instead; Julian's parents said something about wanting to take me skiing, but because they've made a fuss of not letting us sleep in the same room—which of course was more than mortifying—I might just stay and—" She was cut off with a slight yelp as someone actually _fell_ on top of her, causing Georgie to let out a yelp of surprise as she watched the pair fall to the floor.

"Sorry," the boy said, pushing himself up and offering her friend a hand. "You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she responded automatically, ignoring the outstretched fingers and pulling herself up. Ever the gallant, the boy reached down to pick up her schoolbag, and with yet another rushed apology, dashed off on his way.

"How rude," Sierra huffed, dusting off her coat. "God, I hate walking home."

Georgie was silent, looking after the male navigating his way through the crowd, a frown on her face. "I think I know him," she muttered, her words slow and measured. "I'm _sure_ I know him…"

"Good for you," Sierra commented, shrugging her bag onto her shoulder and linking her arm through her friend's. "C'mon, before it starts to rain. Your dad knows you're coming back to my house, right?"

"I'll call him when I get there," she assured the girl, still glancing tellingly over her shoulder, but the boy had all but disappeared.

* * *

The next day, at some point between French and History, Georgie was abruptly pulled aside.

"What are you doing?" she hissed as she was pulled into an empty hall, but her innocent query went unanswered.

"That boy," Sierra snapped, shoulders trembling in annoyance. "You said you knew him!"

The girl blinked her greenish eyes and shook her coppery hair from out of her face.

"_Who?_"

"That _boy_!" she repeated, clearly agitated.

"What boy?"

"The one from yesterday!" she railed, as though these small simple words would immediately clarify matters.

"There were a lot of boys from yesterday."

"The one that—that _pushed_ himself onto me."

"There were a lot of those too."

"_George!_"

"Alright, alright. What about him?"

"You know who he is, don't you?"

"Yeah, but why would you—oh, Sierra," she sighed, exasperated.

"What?"

"Don't do this," she pleaded. "Please; you and Julian have been together for so long, it'll kill him if—"

"Wha—Oh, please! I don't fancy him, Georgie; I can do better than that," she corrected, so distracted by the absurdity of her friend's assumptions to have momentarily forgotten her anger. "Actually, I already have, but that's not why I wanted to talk you."

"It isn't?"

"Of course not."

"Are you sure? I mean, he was quite the—"

"Georgie!"

"Sorry," she apologised with a gesture of surrender. "I'm just stating the obvious here."

Sierra proceeded to scowl in distaste, her friend's gentle teasing doing little to improve her dark mood.

"You _do_ know him, don't you?"

"Oh, sure; his name's Sam or Stan or… Stuart or something. S-T something or other. Why do you ask?"

There was a pause as the darker girl inhaled deeply.

"He stole my purse."

"_What?_" Georgie exclaimed, agog.

"He did; after you went home, I was going through my things and…"

"And?"

"Well my purse wasn't there, was it?"

"Have you gone to the police?" she questioned, and Sierra snorted.

"How could I? We were truanting."

"So… So what do you want to do about it?"

"I want to confront him; I want to see if I can… persuade him to give it back."

"They call that prostitution, you know."

"George!"

"Why are you so upset about this, anyway?" Georgie questioned. "You have more money."

"It had my _debit card_ in it, George," Sierra explained, leaning against a wall, her pleated black skirt fluttering about her legs. "And it was a gift from my uncle from when he was elephant trekking in India. I _have_ to get it back; I don't care about the money, just the purse and the card."

"And Julian's picture," Georgiana ostensibly reminded.

"Yeah, that too," she agreed, sounding more than vaguely dismissive. "Listen, when can I see him? This Stuart or Stan or whatever he's called—And how do you know him, anyway?"

"He's Angie's ex."

"_Angie?_ Your cousin, Angie? Angie the amazing contorting _lesbian_?"

"Well, after Angie came back from the circus, she tried to live a, you know, _normal_ life, so she started dating this boy. But it obviously didn't last, 'cause she's irrevocably Sapphic, and now they're just 'friends.'"

"And I suppose Sam doesn't—"

"I don't think his name's Sam, actually."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't know."

"Okay then; as I was saying, I don't think _the boyfriend_ minded that much, because let's face it, he _did_ pull a lesbian for… How long were they going out for?"

"Three months."

"God, she was in denial."

"Actually, she dumped him when she found out he was cheating on her."

"Ouch. Sworn off men for life, then—Or did he actually _convert_ her to lesbianism? You know, she was borderline and he just—sort of—pushed her over?"

"I don't know; the only thing I know about Angie is that she's my cousin, she ran off to join the circus, and that she's a lesbian. Our family isn't very close."

"We're getting off topic," Sierra pointed out before abruptly exclaiming, "Your lesbian cousin's ex-boyfriend _stole my purse!_"

"So what do you want me to do about it?"

"Help me get it back!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying! And I want you to bear in mind that I'm missing History for you."

"I really, _really_ need to get it back from him, Georgie—have you any idea when I can meet him? _Where_ I can meet him? _How_ I can meet him?"

"Remember when I told you about that party?"

"No…"

"Well, Angie's having a party for Halloween—he's her friend, so I'm sure he'll be there."

"Are you going?"

"I _was_ invited, but—"

"No buts," Sierra interrupted, her voice firm. "You _are_ going, and you're taking me as a guest."

"You can't just order me around! I'm not like Frankie or Ally or any of the others who hang on to your every—"

"Georgie, _please_; consider it a birthday gift."

"You do realise that I have better things to do than—_Steve!_"

"What?"

"I just remembered—Angie's ex-boyfriend, the one who practically ran you over—his name's Steve."

"So you _are_ going to introduce us, then?"

"My parents won't like it if they know I've been socialising with… Well, _you know_. I mean, the fact that they're poor is bad enough, but she's also gay…"

"Neither would mine, so why don't we let it be our own little secret?"

"Sierra, I really don't think—"

"I'll let you sleep with Julian," she offered bluntly.

"What?"

"Julian; you like him, don't you? I'll let you have him."

"But _Sierra_—" Georgie gasped, trying and failing to sound disgusted. "I mean, we're only fourteen… _You're_ not even fourteen yet, you'll be fourteen in two weeks!"

"So?"

"_So?_ That's all you can say?" All Georgie could do was stare at her friend; she'd always known that Sierra had had a little more experience with boys than the rest of her peers—which, in an all-girls' school, was that rare a thing, an achievement both effortless and prestigious—but to think of her—actually—with _Julian_…

Julian, who was in fact sixteen…

"Sierra… You _didn't_… Did you?"

The girl paused, narrowing her blue eyes.

"What sort of girl do you take me for, Georgiana?"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** As promised in the author's note of the prologue, this is the beginning of the new storyline, but I'd like to unequivocally establish that this storyline is **not** gratuitous. You need to understand Sierra's back story with Steve to understand her current relationship with him, which is relevant to her relationship with Jack, which is necessary to the plot. Do not dare to question me, for I know all, and am a knowledge-coveting bitch.

On two separate notes, I've a) posted the first chapter chronicling the misadventures of Pearl in purgatory entitled **Spawn of Satan**, and b) have developed a sudden craving for subtitles; any ideas to distinguish _How My Perfect Life Was Inverted I_ from _How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II_?


	4. Fire

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Three:** Fire_

"If I were to call you an idiot," Georgie was saying in that long-suffering way of hers, "would you take offence?"

Sierra raised and lowered her shoulders in a shrug, but noticeably refused to answer.

"Because you are, you know," she pressed on, determined as she was to draw out the punishment. "It speaks volumes for our education system if a girl predicted Level 7's in her SATs is the same girl who flirted with a complete stranger for half an hour without realising that he was indeed the same boy that picked her pocket."

Sierra straightened at this, her pale eyes turning to glare at her companion.

"In my defence," she snapped heatedly, "not once did I get a chance to look, truly look, at the boy that stole my purse, and besides, one would have thought that a pickpocket wouldn't have the gall to approach the girl whose pocket he'd picked."

Georgie merely ignored her argument.

"You're an idiot," she stated primly, sipping delicately from her plastic cup. Sierra made a noise of distaste in the back of her throat and turned away, arms crossed defensively over her torso in a sulk, fingers fidgeting with her plum-coloured sleeve in agitation.

"I wasn't an idiot; he was reckless and stupid."

"And drunk."

"Yes, that's true."

"And gorgeous; he _was_ gorgeous, wasn't he?"

"Hmm."

"You fancy him, don't you?"

"No."

"Liar."

"Shut up," Sierra dismissed, turning to stare moodily out of the window, her pretty face contorted by a scowl of resentment. Looking at her, at her straight back, her folded arms, her childish pout, made Georgie think of a spoilt five-year-old about to throw a tantrum for not getting the doll she wanted for Christmas; a reaction so typical for girls of Sierra's upbringing. Georgie, of course, was allowed to make such observations as, despite her mother's transparently pathetic pretensions, she was in fact a rung or three below Sierra on the social ladder; not that this had ever affected the girls' friendship, of course.

Well, not directly, at least.

"Exactly what happened?" the almost-redhead pressed. "I leave you in the questionable hands of your ladies-in-waiting to find my cousin, and when I return, you and the courtiers were giggling over your dark knight."

"That punch is spiked, isn't it?"

"Yeah; I heard someone smuggled in rum. And vodka. And tequila. And some really cheap beers some of the older-looking boys bought at the corner shop."

"So it's not so much that someone spiked the punch as it is that we've all unanimously decided to get gloriously drunk."

Georgie merely shrugged.

"What can I say? We're British."

Sierra wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I've never understood why it's such an integral part of youth culture to drink; there's something rather pathetic about a person who has to be drunk off their arse before they're fully able to enjoy themselves."

"You're such a prude," Georgie dismissed, pushing another cup into Sierra's hands. The girl sighed and accepted, but chose instead to simply allow her index finger to lazily trace the rim.

"_So?_ What happened?" her friend demanded, and Sierra sighed, clearly unwilling to share.

"Ask Frankie," she informed her, gesturing vaguely to a mousy-haired girl giggling and whispering with another of their mutual friends. "She has quite a story to tell, and she does so love to hear the sound of her own voice."

Francesca did, indeed, have a story to tell; but to truly discern what was fact and what were merely the drunken embellishments of a giddy teenager who had stupidly mixed vodka and acid took an effort that was beyond Georgiana's current abilities.

It had all started, apparently, _just_ after Georgiana had left in search of Angie; within minutes, Sierra and her entourage—but mostly Sierra, of course, for she stood a little further away from the group, somewhat alone and therefore approachable—were approached by what at first glance appeared to be a drunken homosexual couple. (It apparently took Frankie several moments to realise that the gay couple were in fact nothing more exciting than a pair of drunken teenagers clinging tightly to one another's shoulders for support, and she was apparently very disappointed with this discovery.) And then the following occurred:

"'_Evening," the boy greeted, stumbling and leaning on his equally unsteady companion. "I'm drunk!" he informed the girls brightly, clinging tightly to the other boy. "…But he's not…" he added, pointing at his friend with a surprisingly steady finger. At that very moment, the supposedly sober companion managed to stumble over his own two feet, causing both males to tumble in a manner most undignified. Even for teenagers. Somehow, the boy's—the one who had been talking, not the inebriated mute—eyes met hers, and she was startled at the warm intelligence, the… _joy_, was it?… displayed there. There was a familiarity in his gaze as he looked at her that instantly wracked her with guilt, for if he knew her, then shouldn't she ought to know him? Oh, look, and now he was attempting to stand. How adorable; it was like watching Bambi learn to walk all over again. This last thought brought an affectionate smile to Sierra's face, which soon turned to tears as she recalled how the little fawn's mother was shot by the big bad—_

"Back to the story, Fran," Georgiana interrupted firmly, and Frankie blinked her brown eyes in confusion before shaking her head and continuing with her narrative; but Francesca never uttered another word, for at that very moment, Sierra had indignantly exclaimed,

"I _was not_ startled by his 'warm intelligence'—I was startled by…" And she then proceeded to relate her own version of events.

* * *

"Whoa!" was the only warning she received before she found herself pushed back into the startled arms of her friends as some drunk tripped over his own feet and collapsed onto her. Her mouth had opened in a silent gasp of surprise, and it was only when she was nestled safely, albeit uncomfortably, in the clumsy, unreliable embrace of her startled companions that Sierra let out a shriek of surprise—not least because the boy was still pressed against her, an impertinently blissful grin adorning his features as he giggled incessantly.

"Oh God, oh God; I think I've bruised a rib…" she gasped out from beneath him, still bewildered and uncertain as to what exactly was happening, and how it had happened, and what was to happen next, and she was suddenly aware that her bra was suddenly unhooked—

* * *

"Unhooked?" Georgie pressed, her curiosity insatiable.

"Yeah, I think that somewhere in the drunken struggling, his hand sort of reached around and—flicked…"

"So you don't think it was an accident, then?"

"Of course not!"

* * *

Anyway, her bra had miraculously come undone, leaving her with a conspicuously absent feeling of support that made her squirm in discomfort (much to the boy's delight, if his drunken chuckles were anything to go by), and it was this, more than anything, that finally granted her the strength to push him away—and straight into the arms of an equally inebriated companion, who the boy immediately clung to, still grinning inanely. Straightening, Sierra's hand slipped as discreetly under her shirt as was possible, adjusting accordingly until she deemed the undergarment secure enough to be left to its own devices. So she crossed her now unoccupied arms over her chest in such an obvious gesture of defence that it invited yet another round of guffaws from the boy who had fallen on her, and the stranger was so overcome by mirth that he clung even tighter to his friend, head lowered as wave upon wave of hilarity washed over him, face obscured by dark curtains of hair.

Personally, Sierra didn't quite see what was so amusing, even if he did know about her silent, humiliating struggle with the brassiere; then again, he was drunk, and perhaps a little high, so she knew it was pointless to question his reasoning. Instead, she chose to wait, but for what, she didn't actually know.

Presently, the boy straightened, and she had to admit that she was vaguely surprised.

_He doesn't… look… _quite _as I expected._

Then again, she wasn't the sort of girl that was easily won over by a… classically chiselled face, to use a mild cliché, so this didn't impair her judgement in the slightest.

* * *

"Oh, _please!_" Georgie snorted in disbelief, and some of the other girls tittered appropriately.

"Stop interrupting!"

* * *

"'Evening," the boy—the startlingly, almost distractingly handsome boy—said to her, leaning forward as far away from his companion as he dared, a hand outstretched in a handshake. For a moment, Sierra was so—so taken aback—because, surely, no one actually looked this good in real life—_Better-looking than Julian, in fact!_—that it was only after he retracted his limb that Sierra realised that it was ever offered in the first place.

So instead she gave him a slight smile of embarrassment and a quiet, almost shy, "Hello."

"'Evenin'," the boy acknowledged with a nod of his head that nearly had him capsizing. "God, I'm drunk…" she heard him mutter, even through the crap music (Red Hot Chili Peppers? _Really?_) blaring from the stereos in the other room and the talk of the other guests. His head snapped back up suddenly, his eyes shining.

"I'm drunk!" he told her happily, the lecherous chuckling having been replaced by a sweet, boyish pride stemming from an accelerated sense of achievement. "Drunk… Drunk, drunk, drunk, drunk, _drunk_! …But he's not…" he added, gesturing at his friend, who took that very moment to collapse, which caused the boy to sway and totter slightly. Without really thinking, Sierra darted forward, her hands reaching out to grab his arm, to steady him, to support him, and, on some level, simply to touch him; the boy grinned at this, and wrapped his arm about her shoulder with such ineptitude that she couldn't help but find it endearing.

"Hi," he said to her, blinking his eyes—and they were lovely, beautiful eyes, she couldn't help but think to herself, framed with long feathery lashes that Sierra herself would have envied had she not her own thick, fluttery pair—as he looked down at her face—or the low V of her top. She had a slight suspicion that it was the latter.

"Y'know, you look so much prettier up close," he told her brazenly, and she smiled at this.

"Oh?" she said, still in that soft, gentle voice of hers—the one that Julian always seemed to like (it reminded him of puppies and kittens and rainbows and sunshine and a beach ball that inflated with every bounce across the golden Caribbean sand on which the two of them had first had sex, _apparently_; Sierra had slapped him at this, for Julian had all but admitted to cheating on her over the summer, for they had _never_ had sex on a beach). "Have we—" she stopped at her words, wincing slightly, though she didn't think the boy noticed. Sierra was suddenly, painfully, unconsciously aware of her accent, affected and carefully cultivated as it was due to a combined influence of her parents, her schooling, and her peers—it suddenly seemed rather out of place here, where the hostess had the auditory indecency to _own_, much less _play_, a Red Hot Chili Peppers album; here, where the offensive stench of cigarettes mixed freely with the heady scent of sweat and marijuana and cheap perfume and generic alcohol; here, where the heat of the young, numerous bodies leant the small home an air of sexual electricity that she was suddenly painfully aware of; here, where—

"Have we…?" the boy drawled, pulling her from her thoughts. "Have we what? If it's what I think is what it is, then it doesn't matter if we have or not, for I wouldn't mind repeating what we've already done, if indeed, we have done anything, which I'm sure we haven't, as I'm certain I'd remember doing things with you, indeed, _to_ you, as, perhaps, the case may be, if we have in fact done anything, which we haven't, 'cause you're too beautiful to forget by far; if indeed, we have done anything that warrants remembering. Which I'm sure we haven't. By God, I'm hammered."

Sierra's mouth fell open at—at his—at his _sheer audacity_! That, and the fact that she had relative difficulty following his drunken ramblings, which to her was an additional humiliation, for wasn't she the one receiving the best education money could buy? But oh, his voice; deeper than other boys' she'd spoken to—actually, might have been deeper than her father's! It was slurred, of course, due in no small part to the alcohol he had consumed earlier in the evening, and yet—and yet, every word, every sentence was grammatically correct, correctly pronounced. It wasn't really what she'd expected; there was a hint of Cockney, and Irish, and Australian, and a dash of… American, was it? And yet, his tone was so self-assured, and eloquent, and every word seemed both natural and spontaneous yet carefully measured, and was said with an indolent, seductive drawl… She supposed that if she were to strip away the traces of Cockney and Irish and American and whatever other foreign influences there were, his voice would be just as modulated as hers, albeit several octaves lower.

"Well?" he murmured in that soft, wonderfully ambiguous inflection of his. "Aren't you going to answer me?"

She was silent, still young and uncertain and suddenly fretful of her accent, which honestly never bothered her before, and the as of yet unnamed boy sighed in exasperation.

"Don't have to answer if you don't want to," he informed her, and even though he was taller than her, he leant down to rest his head comfortably on her shoulder, and she heard him inhaling—_Breathing me in_—deeply before releasing the air in a sigh of contentment. "To be perfectly frank for one perfect, honest, golden moment," he told her carefully, "I don't much care what you say, so long as you say it. Talk to me; please: You've such a beautiful voice…"

_Such a beautiful voice…_ She'd barely spent two minutes with him, and he had already called her beautiful twice. Julian hadn't even told her she was beautiful _once_, and she'd known him since she was two years old.

"You've not introduced yourself," she said to him presently, and he seemed to sigh in pleasure as her words filled his ears; a reaction that sent a shiver of delight up her spine. "My name," she continued, "is Sierra de—just Sierra, for now. And you?"

The boy pulled unsteadily away, his dark eyes looking her up and down in approval as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket for a moment, evidently lost in his own drunken thoughts, before finally reaching a decision and offering her his palm. Sierra had gladly accepted, eyes widening in surprise as he brought her fingers, suddenly frail and pale and delicate in his own strong, brown grasp, to his lips; lips which were softer than they looked, she soon discovered, lips that were capable of being gentle and harsh all at once, lips which made her hand tremble in a sort of virginal wonder.

Or perhaps it was his eyes: Perhaps it was those clear, steady eyes, devoid of any drunken influence, that bore unwaveringly into hers; eyes that were dark with a sort of hunger she couldn't quite explain, eyes that seemed to say to her, to mark her, brand her: _You're mine._

"Steve," he said to her, his breath warming her fingers, which were already scorching from his touch. "Stephen Ve—just Steve, for now," and between the rapid heartbeat and quickened breathing and sudden light-headedness that seemed to have snuck uninvited pass her senses, she found herself smiling softly as he gently mocked her.

The moment was suddenly shattered by Steve's drunken friend, who had taken to crawling up the boy's leg, getting as far as the knee before stopping to whimper that he didn't feel well and was very probably about to vomit. It was this last, more than anything, that made Steve drop Sierra's hand with a rushed apology before he bent down and yanked his friend up by the scruff of his neck, _A little too roughly,_ she noted with delight.

When Steve's arm was haphazardly flung about the boy's shoulders, who did indeed look a little green, his dark eyes sought Sierra's once more, and this time his gaze was devoid of that dark, irresistible spell that had held her so helplessly enthralled; they were younger, lighter, friendlier, with a mischievous boyish sparkle as opposed to the dark fire that had lit them moments before. _I'll be back,_ they assured her with twin smiles smacking of cheek, and then he was dragging his almost-unconscious friend away, leaving Sierra to stand there, heart fluttering, legs shaking, an unbearably painful fire igniting from within her that set her very soul alight.

(And she had remained dizzy and confused and a little hostile towards herself for feeling the way that she did at such short notice for quite some time; it was only _after_ the frustratingly unruffled Georgie had sauntered over in that unperturbed way of hers to calmly ask her friend if Steve had relinquished the purloined purse or no that Sierra even began to _consider_ that perhaps—just perhaps—the ever so charmingly drunken Steve she had spoken with mere minutes ago may _quite_ just possibly be the very same Steve that had knocked her to the ground ten days prior, and she began to feel rather resentful towards the other girl as a result, for she was quite happy to continue hating one Steve whilst coveting another—not that she told any of her companions this, of course.)

* * *

As Sierra spoke, so her sycophants did listen, and listened with a sort of awed silence as their unelected leader described with a storyteller's effortless skill her encounter with Stephen Ve-something-or-other; even Georgiana hung on to her every word, for once, and why shouldn't she? What Sierra was describing was beyond their respectively limited experience, beyond that of most teenage romances; a sort of dark, fiery passion that even fully matured adults rarely found. It was an emotion that belonged in myths and novels and legends and plays, and rightly so: It was a fire, a raging inferno, blacker than night, uncontrollable, unquenchable, unappeasable, _destructive_. It was a beautiful, powerful, untameable passion, wild and selfish and ravenous and unrelenting in its chosen course, but like all fires, it will burn out, and the aftermath will be absolutely devastating.

But Sierra did not realise this, of course; all she knew was that she had felt something alien, something rare and exquisite and valuable, something to be hoarded, which was why she had been so reluctant to share. But in the end it had proved to be too much for a girl of her tender age to keep to herself; why, only yesterday she had turned fourteen, and she knew, even at that age, that what she had felt with Steve was something that only occurred in fantasy, not in real, everyday life. It was something big, something special, and she was suddenly overcome by the desire to let the whole world know… although she didn't quite know what _it_ was.

And… Well, it was a bit embarrassing really, wasn't it? To feel so strongly towards a complete stranger with neither warning nor explanation. She'd have been far more accepting of _it_ if she had known Steve for a while, or if _it_ had slowly been building up between the two of them; God knows, she would have been very accepting of _that_. But to have these emotions _erupt_ from her, springing forth from out of nothing, nowhere… Well, it was somewhat unnatural, wasn't it? And what's more, she'd _fallen for his eyes_, for God's sake! That greatest, least acceptable, most _unforgivable_ of all romantic clichés! She didn't want any of her relationships, romantic or otherwise, to be clichéd, though; she wanted them to be _real._

…But… But perhaps she _did_ know, really, what _it_ was. Did she? Did she really know, and was simply trying to reject it? After all, _it_ was not in keeping with what she had been raised with. But no matter; there were more important matters at hand.

As Sierra was replaying the encounter in her head, seeking the right words to convey to her friends what had suddenly overcome her, it had suddenly dawned on her that what she had felt with Steve were not the gentle pangs of first _love_, but rather, _lust_. He was the first boy who… He… He was her first… lust. Puppy lust, if you will.

And as she weaved her tale to her spellbound and inexperienced audience, she found herself noticing her body, her actions, her words, as a stranger might see them: her hands, and how they seemed to move and flitter and dance like feathers on a gentle breeze, rising and falling and complementing her ever-changing voice; her heart, slowing and quickening, quieting and thundering in her ears, neither steady nor erratic, but so painfully _present_ that she was certain others were aware of it; her skin, hot, not from the air around her, but rather, from that fire that she suddenly knew raged inside of her, and she knew that that flame, once lit, would remain with her until she drew her last breath… And she wondered—she honestly couldn't help but simply wonder—did this metaphorical flame produced a physical manifestation, and if so, was it a pretty, attractive one, the sort that men would fight wars for, the sort that would put Helen to shame and make Troy look like child's play, or was she just rambling incoherently so that she might distract herself from that which had just occurred?

She found her fingers reaching up, pulling at her long sleeves, which had seemed such a good choice when she had looked out of her window at the lightly drizzling world beyond; now though, the material seemed suddenly thick and stifling, suffocating her overheated skin. She found her hand flapping back and forth before her face, futilely inviting the cool air to grace her flushing cheeks with its gentle touch, before her fingers fell to pull and adjust her shirt, reaching up to brush her dark hair away from her heated neck.

Her neck, which suddenly seemed oddly bare…

_My necklace!_ she thought wildly, her fingers scrabbling at her neck, tapping insistently at her throat, as though the jewellery would miraculously reappear. It wasn't the most valuable item she owned, and it was rather simple in its design, a sparkling dewdrop suspended from a slender chain of silver. That's why it was her favourite accessory: nothing to cry over if lost, and neither gaudy nor gauche.

And now it was gone.

"That—that—that—_bastard!_"

* * *

My eyes snapped opened, and I sat up suddenly in the bathtub, my arms wrapped protectively about myself, shoulders shaking, my pulse deafeningly erratic. To be perfectly honest, there was no actual reason, nothing to prompt my sudden action, save my own thoughts.

After shooing Flavio away, I'd been lying in the bathtub for a good ten minutes, you see, and in that time, my thoughts had stupidly been given free rein to wander. And wandered and wondered they had, to a subject I had not given serious consideration since—well, for a very long time, but, desperate as I was to purge _that_ nightmare from my mind, I had willingly invited it, accepted it, embraced it; and now, I must live to regret it.

My thoughts had drifted to an ex-boyfriend of mine; his name was Steve, and I had found myself thinking of how we had first met, and my reaction to him: a sort of sudden, uncontrollable wave of lust, cunningly interwoven with sly hormones and heady first-time love. At the time, I had felt as though I was a candle, and he had with him a set of matches which he used to set me alight; afterwards, I found myself thinking of him constantly, and when I had spent long enough thinking of him, I had begun to notice how my body seemed to react in ways that I had never thought of before, and how I felt emotions which I couldn't even name. The night that I had met him… With just one look, Steve had driven me, young girl I then was, wild; and far too soon, I had become unhealthily obsessed, hopelessly enchanted, infected as I was by a sort of all-consuming emotion that was jealousy and idolatry and lust… And yet there was also love, and affection, and a frail sort of tenderness which, indeed, Steve seemed to cherish far more than anything else that we had, but which I always took for granted.

But all that came later; perhaps I should explain why my first encounter with Stephen Verne had me bolting up from my bath, splashing water all about me. I have already described the single emotion that seemed to consume me when I had laid eyes on Steve, and I remembered it well. Fair enough, you say; but what made me react so strongly was that, simply by thinking about him, that sudden… passion came jolting back, flooding through my limbs and leaving me helpless. A decade had done little to dilute the intensity of that instantaneous infatuation; so to feel what I did that night so overwhelmingly would have been shocking enough.

But wait, there's more.

Whilst I was lying in the water, confused and bewildered and vaguely bemused at my sudden reverie, a cruel parasite seemed to crawl into my ear long enough to say to me,

_Have you ever felt that, with any other man? That sudden lightning bolt that strikes at your heart and sets your soul on fire: that fire that's more intoxicating than lust, more enduring than love, more delightful than the simple sweetness of affection?_

_No, of course not,_ the voice had scoffed at me. _No one else has ever made you feel that way._

_Not even Jack Sparrow._

**-x!x-**

**AN:** So… what are your initial impressions of Steve? Like him, loathe him, undecided as of yet? And any further thoughts on subtitles? I have an idea of naming them after principle characters, like _How My Perfect Life Was Inverted: Pearl_, or something, but then, which characters do I use?


	5. Of Pearls and Lingerie

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Four:** Of Pearls and Lingerie_

"Oh, now that's just utterly ridiculous," Flavio scoffed as he combed my wet hair later that morning whilst I sat in a loose nightshirt. "Of course you've felt the way that you did with Stefania with Jackia."

"For the last time, his name was _Steve_!"

"Of course it is," Flavio concurred with the vaguest hint of patronisation. "And Vicomte Jackia du Moineau née Frou-Frou's real name is 'Jack.'"

I was immediately pulled out of my spiral of depression at this.

"Vicomte Jackia du Frou-Frou?" I questioned, and Flavio nodded vigorously.

"_Oui, Mademoiselle la Comtesse._ Or should it be _Madame_?"

"Flavio…?"

"Oui?"

"…Where's your Italian accent gone?"

"_Italienne?_" he said, deliberating drawing out the last syllable.

"Sì."

"Madame Demoiselle, I have never had an Italienne accent."

"Well I preferred it to the French one you're now using; it sounds utterly ridiculous. Get rid of it."

"Non."

"Oui."

"Non!"

"_Oui._"

"Nein."

"Ja—_Flavio!_ As your mistress, I command you!"

"Fine," he huffed, clearly deflated, and returned to detangling my hair. I closed my eyes and smiled softly, leaning back into his skilled hands. I quite enjoyed being petted like this.

"But if I may wonder," Flavio began, his voice low and sly, and I felt his fingers brushing against my neck as he spoke, "if I may wonder, Mademoiselle la Comtesse, if indeed you've never felt anything towards le Vicomte du Moineau—"

"Vicomte? No, Flavio, Capitaine; surely _Capitaine._"

"Hmm, how odd, that's exactly what the Vicomte said; now as I was saying, if I were you, and Frou-Frou meant nothing to me, then why would I think of him when I was thinking of another man who I had graced with my love? Indeed, perhaps the _only_ man I had graced with my love, if I did not also grace le vicomte with undying adulation?"

I was silent, studying my face in the mirror, and out of the corner of my eye, saw Flavio lean closer to whisper in my ear, "If I was thinking of love, first love, _true_ love, and lust, and passion, and fire and burning and yearning and longing and desire, then why would a man who I did not care for suddenly appear uninvited in my thoughts?"

I couldn't find the words that I needed to say what I wanted to say: instead I watched him; watched as one of his golden curls brushed my shoulder as he stooped lower still to whisper, "If I may be so bold, Mademoiselle? I believe that you have fallen for the Vicomte du Frou-Frou, but that, somehow, somewhere, some small part of you feels guilt over this, because I believe that you believe that you should love no other but this Stevanikova fellow, and so your confused mind is thus conjuring up thoughts and whispers to make you doubt your love for la Vicomtesse."

"You think that I'm falling in love—have fallen in love—will fall in love—with Jack, and I'm feeling guilty over this because I've been subconsciously thinking all this time that I should be in love with Steve and no other, which is—Which would explain quite a lot actually, because—because—Oh, Flavio!" And I turned, thankful, to throw my arms about his shoulders, kissing his neck and cheek.

"Oh, Flavio, that explains it!" I cried, triumphant, and pulled away to look up at him, at his wide, confused, sparkling eyes.

"Explains _what?_"

"Why, the nightmare, of course! Did I not tell you of the nightmare?"

"No…" he pouted, crossing his arms and turning away in a sulk. I smiled at this, tugged gently at his hand, and invited him to sit at my feet so that I might weave my fingers through his own hair. He consented, his head resting happily in my lap, and I had then proceeded to relate to him the entire nightmare, sparing no possible detail.

"Oh, that's so horrible!" he cried, burying his face into my thin shift. "Poor birdie, poor birdie, poor birdie birdie bird bird!"

"I know; I thought I would die, it was so disgusting. But don't you see? It doesn't mean anything at all; the dream doesn't _mean_ anything; all it means is that I resent Jack on some level because he's pulling me away from Steve, who I really should have… Well, I should have accepted by now that our relationship is well and truly over, and I will never see him again, and should have… _moved on_, shouldn't I? And now that I've met Jack—"

_Jack Sparrow, who is decidedly _not _here,_ that cruel voice murmured in my ear again. _Jack Sparrow, the pirate, the criminal, the womaniser and freebooter; Jack Sparrow, free as the bird for which he is named…_

_You couldn't have a healthy, lasting relationship with him either, could you? And now he's gone forever and you'll never ever see him again…_

_Mind you, Stephen Verne wasn't that much better: Exactly _how _many times did he cancel a date for a court summons?_

"Oh, Flavio, I'm an idiot," I said to him softly, my fingers brushing his silky hair. "I'm an idiot with terrible taste in men."

Flavio made a grunt of protest, told me firmly that I _was not_ an idiot, and succeeded in making me smile.

"Flavio," I said suddenly, "Flavio, do I have money?"

"Pardon?"

"Do I, as Nicolette, have money that I can access; do I have money that I can take with me _right now_?"

"Why do you ask?"

I smiled gently down at him as Flavio blinked in confusion, and leant down to whisper,

"How would you like to go shopping with me? I'll buy you something pretty."

Flavio's face lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically; I couldn't help but laugh at this. With some slight prodding, he straightened, and suddenly transformed into a bustling little maidservant who fussed over my hair and went around searching for the most beautiful gown he could find in the governor's wife's collection of rejects, whilst I sat watching him 'work' with a sad smile on face.

Jack had left me. I had long since resigned myself to the fate, but it was only because I could console myself with Pearl's sweet, bouncy presence: but that sweet solace had been cruelly taken from me, and there was absolutely no way I, or indeed anyone, could bring her back.

There was absolutely no way to bring her back.

Flavio was sweet, he really, truly was; and he was rather childish in nature… But I loved Pearl. I loved her with such an overwhelming intensity that it was really rather frightening: the mere mention of her name deepened the crack in my heart, even as that elusive organ swelled with affectionate tenderness. This was called grief, I knew: and it was pain, this grief which ran through me like a knife, this anguish that caused my very bones to splinter as I crumbled from within.

I was certain I would have been far stronger, though, if I had Jack with me: I found my heart lightening as I wondered where he was now, and what he was doing, and was he safe? Oh God, was he safe? I would die if I lost him as well as Pearl. I was barely alive now, drifting like a ghost through Nicolette's shallow, empty life.

But in a sense, I had already lost him. He didn't want me: I was simply a waste of his time.

Jack Sparrow had abandoned me, and left me with one of his crew's rejects. And there was such a high chance of us being discovered; our masks were thin and flimsy, having been fashioned from a substance as fragile as crêpe paper.

_And I'm never going to see Steve again, either,_ I thought wistfully to myself, before shaking my head and standing.

Shopping would make me forget.

* * *

"I was just thinking," Steve was saying conversationally, leaning over the table and absently tracing a circle on the back of her hand. "I was just thinking, of how we met, do you remember?"

She smiled softly at him, and gently pulled her hand away, wrapping her fingers tightly around her slender glass of water. After running into him at the Intrepid Fox, Sierra had somewhat reluctantly relinquished her phone number; two weeks had passed, and then, just when she had convinced herself that the man was only asking for her number out of polite habit, she had received a call, during which that same man had apologised profusely for not calling sooner, asked her if she was inclined to grace his lunch break with her presence three days later, and bluntly queried as to what she was wearing. (He was disappointed to discover that it was nothing more remarkable than a pair of faded jeans and an oversized shirt that had belonged to an ex of hers, but swallowed this fact with dignity, perking up when she promised that from now on she would make certain to always be wearing lingerie before she accepted any of his calls.)

Steve, Sierra had soon discovered, had done remarkably well for himself; he was a sports lawyer, and his firm represented some rather distinguished clientele.

"I'm really happy for you," she said to him sincerely. "You worked hard, you deserve it, and I am free on Thursday; where should we meet?"

That hour-long exchange had occurred three days ago, and now, here they sat, and Steve had suddenly brought up their first meeting, and Sierra was feeling oddly uncomfortable, yet somehow relaxed, and very, _very_ guilty.

"What about it?" she asked of him, taking a sip of the cool water.

He smiled at her, his brown eyes sparkling.

"You stole from me," he smirked.

"You did it first! _Twice!_" she defended, feeling and sounding as though she was fourteen all over again.

"Thief."

"You taunted me into going through your pockets: you knew I was going to do it."

"Of course I did; you would've done anything to get your precious little purse back."

"Not _anything._"

"You would have kissed me."

"No, I wouldn't, not then: I had morals then."

"Thank God we've worked those out of your system," he quipped, and she smiled. The man was obviously pleased with this reaction, and raised his glass.

"To amorality."

"Indeed," she laughed. Their glasses clinked, and Sierra hurriedly averted her eyes as they drank; the way his own orbs were trained on hers made her uncomfortable, considering how she did, after all, still love Jack. To be perfectly honest, sitting here, in this classy little restaurant, with Steve, made her feel as though she was betraying the pirate. Even though Steve had agreed that their romance was of the past, and now the two were just friends, it still felt… wrong.

"I actually have something for you," he told her, and she blinked.

"What?"

"Here," and he reached into his inner pocket to pull out a slender black box, tossing it carelessly onto the table. She was insatiably curious, and at the same time, rather frightened.

"That's… That's a… jewellery… box."

"I know. Consider it an early Christmas gift."

She was silent, her eyes huge as she stared.

"Well?" he asked, tapping his long fingers impatiently. "Aren't you going to open it?"

Hesitantly, her hand reached out to take the box, eyes roving over the word _Mikimoto_.

"You got me pearls."

"Of course," he smiled indulgently. "Open it."

She did as she was told, and breathed in deeply.

"Oh, Steve!" she gasped as her eyes fell on the set. "Steve, this is just…"

"Do you like it?"

"Oh God, Steve… They're beautiful," she breathed, her fingers hovering over the necklace and twin earrings.

"Try them on."

"No," she said, gently pushing the lid back down. "No, I can't."

"Why not?" he asked, and she snapped her head up to glare at him.

"I thought we were going to be friends."

"We are."

"_Just_ friends."

"Why, are we more than that?"

Her jaw tightened, and she slid the box back across the table.

"Friends don't give friends Mikimoto pearls."

"Generous ones with more money than they can burn do," he told her firmly, pushing the gift back to her. "Take it, it's yours."

"No."

"Sierra, don't be stubborn."

"I can't accept them," she said to him, fighting down the lump in her throat. Pearls. Out of all of the jewels he could have given her, he had to buy her pearls.

She supposed she should be grateful that they weren't black; _ironic_ barely described the current situation as it is.

"Take them back," she said to him. "Look, I know that it cost you a _fortune_, but… I don't deserve such generosity."

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Oh, Sierra… You think that…" And he began to chuckle.

"What? I fail to see what could be so amusing."

"I didn't originally buy these for you."

"… I'm sorry?"

"These pearls," he explained, tapping the box with his index finger. "Originally, they weren't meant for you: I'd bought them for my fiancée. I was going to give them to her as a wedding present, but then we called the wedding off."

"…Oh."

"Indeed," he said, drumming his fingers on the closed lid. "I've had these pearls sitting in my sock drawer for the better part of eight months, and am desperately trying to be rid of them. So do you want them, or not?"

"I…" she began, but in truth, the woman had no idea what she was saying. Alright, so the man hadn't bought these pearls _just_ for her: The jewellery was less personal now, less meaningful. But they were still pearls; they were still Jack's jewel of choice.

Steve sighed, and placed the box back into his pocket.

"Tell you what," he said to her, "I'll hang onto them for a little while longer until you can decide, alright? If you want them, just tell me and I'll give them to you."

She smiled, but the smile seemed false.

"Thanks, Steve."

"It's no problem," he assured her, patting his jacket.

"So… Your fiancée, huh?" she said conversationally, settling her glass down and leaning forwards. She pretended not to notice how his eyes darted down to her chest. "What happened? What was she like?"

Steve hesitated.

"She was tall… ish," he amended. "Taller than average. Blonde—ish; she had light brown hair and highlights—that's practically blonde, isn't it? Quite attractive, well, I thought she was; brown eyes and a really beautiful smile. Her name was Nicole."

"Was she nice? I mean, obviously—"

"Oh, she was—fantastic sense of humour." He smiled gently at Sierra, and she couldn't easily discern whether the expression was false or not. "Really liked kids—couldn't wait to have her own."

"She sounds wonderful," Sierra said with a saccharine smile. "How did it all go wrong?"

"Oh, I found out she was cheating on me," he dismissed.

"…Oh."

"With my girlfriend."

There was a pause at this.

"You found out she was cheating on you with _your_ girlfriend?"

"Yep."

"Steve…"

"What?" he asked, looking bewildered.

"That's slightly hypocritical, isn't it?"

Steve narrowed his eyes at her.

"I wasn't going out with her _at the time!_"

"No?"

"No! I didn't have a girlfriend whilst I was _engaged._" And he glared at her. "Honestly, what sort of callous, philandering prick do you take me for?"

Sierra immediately backed off.

"You're right; you're right, I'm sorry, I should have known…"

"_No_ girlfriend whilst I was engaged," he stressed.

"I'm sorry—"

"I had a boyfriend back then."

"…Well that makes it all better, then."

"You say that as though you think Nicole didn't know about Mark," he told her childishly.

"Did she?"

"Well, no, but—That's not the point," he clumsily evaded, and she grinned slightly.

"…So… you have a girlfriend now?"

"Yeah, Sonja. German girl."

"Blonde?"

"Bottle brunette, natural redhead. She has a nice accent—one of those Munich ones, you know?"

"Oh, I love those accents—people always give me odd looks when I tell them I love German accents. You _have_ to introduce me to her sometime… But Steve, really, if you have a girlfriend—why didn't you give those pearls to her then?" she blustered carelessly, and Steve's lips twisted into a sneer.

"I'm only going out with her to get back at Nicole. To be honest, I don't like her that much."

"Hell hath no fury like a penis scorned," she nodded sagely. "I should know that by now."

Steve seemed very interested by this.

"Boyfriend problems?" he asked, a little too eagerly.

"How can there be? I've no boyfriend."

"Oh, what a pity," he sympathised, and she bit back a smile, studying her napkin intently.

"Steve?" she began, and he tilted his head to indicate his attention.

"What time do you have to be back at work? We've been sitting here for ten minutes and haven't ordered anything."

"I don't," he told her. "I've taken the afternoon off."

"For me?" she blurted out with her usual tactlessness.

"Of course for you," he grinned. "I was thinking of rectifying what appears to be a lingerie deficiency on your part."

"Wha—I don't _have_ a lingerie deficiency."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Steve… Do you honestly think that's entirely appropriate? I mean, we are—"

"Just friends?" he finished for her with that frustrating smile of his. "We are—But surely friends can help friends pick out lingerie in the afternoons?"

She narrowed her eyes and attempted to appear offended.

"If you wish to help me pick something out, it could be a gift for a delightful four-year-old I'm visiting this Christmas."

"Not seeing family this year?"

"No—well, sort of. My adopted family, as it were, but never mind that—So tell me, if you were a four-year-old boy, what would you want for Christmas more than _anything_ in the world?"

Steve furrowed his brow, pursing his lips.

"…A puppy?" he tried.

"He _does_ want a pet," she conceded. "But I'm not sure Janelle would agree with puppies. Goldfish, perhaps."

"Janelle? Is that his—"

"No! No, Johnnie isn't Janelle's child," she said, before adding sadly, "Johnnie's mother was incapable of looking after him… financially, when he was born… But Janelle is as good as a mother to him, and she's a fantastic mother, really, she is… So I don't suppose that really matters."

"And the father?"

"Dead," she said softly.

"No wonder you're so fond of him," Steve said to her sympathetically. Sierra remained quiet, her eyes full of pity for the boy, and he decided to move on to a lighter topic:

"So, lingerie?" he said to her with an impish grin. "Any deviant tastes I should know of?"

She smiled coyly up at him from under her lashes.

"Well…" she began, and stopped, her smile swiftly morphing into a smirk.

"Define 'deviant.'"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** So sorry there's no Jack, and won't be for a very long time. There's not actually a lot going on with Nicolette at the moment, which was why I thought now would be a good place for the alternate plotlines… Last chapter, most people had left reviews saying that they quite liked Steve: I'm now asking why you do, and what do you think of his relationship with Sierra? I'm insatiably curious, as you can see.


	6. Bastard!

**AN:** An extra-long chapter, just in time for Christmas :) No switching between time periods in this one; just two scenes in the present accompanied by one long, uninterrupted segment of the back story to get through. Happy holidays.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Five:** Bastard!_

"So you actually got to New York three days ago?" Janelle interrogated from the doorway, watching her friend and houseguest unpack. "Why did it take you so long to get _here_, then?"

Sierra sighed, spreading a short, dark teal dress out on the bed, and Janelle frowned; she'd already seen the way her boyfriend looked at her English friend; if Sierra wore _that_ tonight, they might be breaking up.

"Janelle… I had… Other things to attend to."

"'Work,' you mean; you were… you know… weren't you?"

"Yes," Sierra said shortly, closing her eyes and cursing herself for befriending such a pillar of morality. Dropping a red sweater onto the mattress, she spun around to glare at her.

"It is _not_ prostitution," she repeated evenly.

"Sierra, I know you think I'm a chaste, naïve, sort of girl, but even _I_ know a man won't pay fifteen thousand dollars for _companionship_."

"They're lonely men."

"Lonely enough to pay thirty thousand for a weekend?"

"Are you jealous because I'm rich?" she asked dangerously. "No, don't protest; when we first met, I was living out of my father's pocket, and you hated me then, didn't you? And then I disappeared for two years, and when I came back, I was pregnant and penniless. And my father just didn't want to know, even when I told him that I'd misca…" She couldn't even bring herself to say it. "You were a _lot_ nicer then," she brushed over professionally, "and we were friendly for a couple of years. And now that I'm back on my feet—"

"There's something highly ironic about getting back on your feet by lying on your back, don't you think?" the woman asked cruelly.

"Janelle… Why do you care?"

"Because I'm worried about Johnnie," she said. "He loves you, he worships you; he wants to be the male equivalent of you… Don't you see?"

Sierra was silenced by this.

"Janelle, you know that I… Does it really matter? As far as he knows, I'm just a writer with a close circle of very generous, mostly male friends."

_Mostly?_

Janelle would have replied aloud, had a blue-clad cannonball not streaked pass her at that very moment, launching himself at Sierra, little arms wrapped tightly about her legs. Sierra giggled, carefully disentangling herself before bending down to wrap the toddler in a hug.

"Missed me, Johnnie?" she laughed affectionately, placing a kiss on his nose; the boy squealed and clung tighter to her, too delighted to speak coherently.

Janelle knew when she wasn't wanted, and with a forced smile, exited, leaving the pair to reunite; when the couple were done hugging the life out of one another, Johnnie shyly offered to help the woman unpack. Sierra glanced at the suitcase, satisfied that all underwear and other personal items had been removed, and consented.

As such, it was Johnnie that had found the smuggled jewellery box. The boy tilted his dark head to the side, mouth opening and closing as he tried to read the letters engraved into the lid.

"Mi… Mi… Mickey?"

"What is it, baby?" Sierra asked lightly, tucking away the last of her socks and coming over. Her eyes widened, mouth opening, and then a dark scowl stole across her face which made Johnnie shrink back.

"Oh sweetheart, no; no, I'm not angry at _you_; how can I be, when you're so sweet and perfect?" she cooed, bending down to kiss his smooth brow soothingly, and Johnnie's shoulders relaxed.

"What is it?" he asked babyishly, pointing at the box; Sierra hesitated before smiling and sweetly offering he open it. The toddler did so, gasping as the light fell across the diamonds and Akoya pearls; behind him, Sierra's eyes slid closed in silent confirmation. She had been secretly hoping that the box had been a Christmas gift from Gary, the man she had spent the past three days with, and whose sense of humour would excuse him this sort of behaviour…

_That's the last time I let Steve take me to the airport,_ she thought wryly.

_Well, the last time I let him handle the luggage, anyway._

* * *

"_Steve_?" Janelle frowned later that evening after she'd finished mingling. "Who's _Steve_? You never told me about _Steve_." 

Sierra hated how Janelle drew out Steve's name; Janelle loved to draw out Steve's name because Sierra hated it so.

"He's an ex-boyfriend," she said ambiguously, taking a sip of champagne and making certain to stay away from the mistletoe sprinkled throughout the interior; whilst she loved how the majority of Sean and Janelle's male friends, relatives, colleagues and miscellaneous acquaintances stared and drooled over her (she wouldn't have worn the low-cut babydoll otherwise), she couldn't see any attractive enough to be worthy of her kisses. (Except for Sean, but he was Janelle's boyfriend, and as such, strictly off limits. In public, anyway.)

Janelle rolled her eyes, knowing full well that Sierra had a lot of exes; that being said, there were very few who she would refer to as a boyfriend.

"_And?_" she pressed.

"And nothing!" Sierra snapped defensively, her hand instinctively reaching up to brush against the diamonds and pearls around her neck. Janelle frowned at the white gold pendant, having noticed how the brunette had a tendency to fidget with the gems when agitated. She had casually enquired as to the origin of the jewels, and Sierra had simply replied, "Steve gave them to me," but had refused to elaborate further.

"He gave those to you recently, didn't he?" she asked bluntly.

"No—Alright, yes," she amended, shrugging apologetically; when it came to Steve, Sierra had a habit of automatically denying any and everything connected to the man. This instinct had saved him from quite a few arrests in the past, and both were grateful for it.

"Oh Sierra, that's wonderful!"

"What?"

"Well… It's nice to see you moving on from Jack."

"_What?_" and she stared at the redhead in disbelief.

"Well… The two of you are dating again, aren't you?"

"No!"

"But you want to?"

"We're just—"

"Friends," she completed with an evil smirk that was highly unbecoming. "Of course."

Sierra scowled—why did no one (Steve included) believe her when she said that?—and took a gulp of gently fizzing champagne, staring silently into the glass.

"I do like him," she admitted quietly. "But… But I haven't quite… gotten over Jack yet." She smiled humourlessly at this. "He's a very hard man to forget, particularly if you've slept with him—"

"Maybe for _you_," Janelle muttered under her breath.

"—and that's why I don't want to… initiate… a relationship with Steve… Not yet, anyway… Because I don't want to hurt him, do you see? I really value Steve as a friend, and if we were to become more than that… again… I'll just keep comparing him to Jack, and that would be really unfair on him, particularly because… Oh God, I really am an idiot," she trailed off, lowering her head, a sad smile on her face.

"When I was with Jack," she continued softly. "I kept comparing him to Steve—not deliberately, and not even consciously—I never said anything about Steve to Jack… And yet he knew. He just knew. And he hated that; by God, he hated that."

Janelle was silent, watching her hurting friend sympathetically; if Johnnie hadn't already gone to bed, she would've fetched him: Two minutes in the boy's presence always perked Sierra up, no matter what the circumstances. The American tried to be sensitive of her friend's feelings, but to be perfectly frank, she was overwhelmingly intrigued.

"Oh, honey… I had no idea that… I mean, I know that your relationship with Jack fell apart because he let slip that he—"

Sierra's dark head snapped up suddenly, her eyes hard. "_Don't_," she snapped harshly, "Don't you _dare_ say her name."

Janelle bit down hard on her tongue, and looked over to Sean, silently grateful that _their_ relationship was relatively simple and straightforward.

"So… Tell me—how did you and Steve meet? I mean, how did it all begin?"

Sierra hesitated, taking another sip of her drink and swallowing uncomfortably, studying the rim in silent scrutiny.

"Well," she said at last, "I suppose it began like any other normal, healthy relationship does…"

* * *

"You," a fourteen-year-old Sierra was saying, stopping before Steve with her arms crossed. "_You._" 

Steve glanced at the three boys and pink-haired girl beside him, murmured something about excusing himself, and pulled Sierra away, up the stairs and into a bedroom piled with various coats and scarves. The shut door immediately muffled out the music from below (Nirvana's _Nevermind_ had long since replaced the Red Hot Chili Peppers, much to Sierra's aural relief), and the girl suddenly felt raw and exposed and… vulnerable.

"Is there something you want?" the boy asked politely, leaning back to sit comfortably on the bed and patting the free space beside him invitingly. Lazily, she stepped towards him, and delivered the most powerful slap she could muster.

"…Well…" Steve said at last, shaking his head. "Impressive, but next time, hit with your fist closed; causes far more damage on impact. Why, when we've settled our little disagreement, perhaps I might show you."

She could feel the colour rushing to her cheeks, but kept her eyes on his.

"Do you remember me?"

"Of course; how could anyone ever forget a face as lovely as yours?"

"Don't try to charm me, you slithering little snake," she snapped at him, fury and humiliation causing her face to twist unpleasantly in a way that she knew was decidedly neither lovely nor beautiful nor pretty nor any other of the hundreds of truthful compliments he could think of showering upon her. But then she realised how ridiculous she must look, a slight slip of a girl standing before this decidedly taller, stronger adolescent, demanding if he recalled the day they had met: what a comic sight she must have made, slender, delicate sylph that she was, her eyes flashing, cheeks glowing with anger.

And besides, whilst emotion was indeed the very essence of human nature, a public, uncontrollable display of it was a leisure best entertained by the lower classes. No one of proper upbringing would ever throw a childish fit, nor slap a complete stranger, even if he did deserve it. So she straightened, inhaled once, deeply, and said in a false calm that was quite frightening in its measured control,

"You took my purse from me, ten days ago, do you remember? Practically ran me over."

Steve's face flooded in unexpected relief.

"Oh, thank God; and here I thought you wanted to confront me for slipping that lovely little trinket off of your neck."

"Now that—!" she began angrily, but caught herself just in time. "That is a secondary concern, but it is a concern nonetheless."

"Well, listen to you talk; tell me, are you always so charmingly eloquent just before you rip someone's throat out?"

"I wouldn't know; I've never wanted to rip anybody's throat out before this moment."

"Then I consider myself honoured. But I'm curious, Sierra—" And he leaned forward, that arrogant smirk of his never once leaving his face as he placed his elbows on his knees, fingers lacing together to provide a resting place for his chin as he smirked knowingly up at her. "Exactly how did you plan to retrieve your wallet and necklace?"

Sierra was silent; it would be a lie to claim that she had not, in all actuality, thought that far, for she most certainly _had_; but it would also be a lie to claim that she had fashioned a cunning, foolproof plan, for she most certainly hadn't. To be perfectly honest, when she had first realised that Steve was _Steve_, she began to hope that, by her own wiles or indeed, by any other means, he'd become so drunk he'd pass out somewhere private and quiet, thus leaving her to search his person for her necklace and his house keys. Then she'd stealthily approach Angie, who last, she checked, was busy _literally_ wrapping her body about a lamppost outside, inform her of the problem, retrieve Steve's address, and take his unconscious self home. If he lived alone, or if the house was empty, then, well, _brilliant_, for Sierra would be free to rummage through his home and belongings in peace. And if he didn't, and if the house wasn't, then she'd simply say she was a ditzy, insipid, air headed girl the boy had met at Angie's party—not a complete lie—and that she wanted desperately to exchange phone numbers, but then he passed out. She'd act silly and trivial and dim, but she would flavour her character with just enough sweetness to convince Steve's mother or father or uncle or aunt or social worker or whosever's legal responsibility it was to watch over Steve that her heart was true, her intentions pure, her brain slow. She'd have, perhaps, five minutes, was it, to potter around and search through his drawers and closets and whatnot and then, and if necessary, she'll inform his parents of what he had done to her, because surely he'll relinquish what were rightly her belongings, and look, she was rambling again, and she had just missed what Steve had just said.

"Pardon?"

He smiled and shook his head. "I was just asking: _what_, exactly, are you willing to do, to get your little purse back?"

There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her cross her arms defensively over her chest whilst silently cursing the low neckline; Steve noticed this, and grinned.

"Are… Are you flirting with me?"

"And you would care because…?" he responded, raising a dark eyebrow. She opened her mouth, reconsidered, and snapped it shut again, her blue eyes narrowing.

"Do you _want_ me to be flirting with you?"

"Certainly not; I asked because I'm not exactly well-acquainted with the mating rituals of the poor," she sneered in reply, her eyes roving pointedly over his faded shoes and scruffy clothing: Offence was, after all, the best defence, or so they say.

Steve showed no signs of having his feathers ruffled, tilting his head and looking at her contemplatively; when he spoke, however, the danger in his words betrayed an affronted ego.

"Be very careful with what you say and who you say it to; 'the poor' aren't known for their… _gentle_ actions."

"Is that a threat? Look, I don't _like_ you, alright?—And why should I, you're a lying, two-timing, thieving little git who'll probably die of a drug overdose by twenty-five—And all I want is to get my purse and necklace back and continue with my life." Good God, why did she have to end that speech with a whine? She must have seemed utterly pathetic.

"Ah, but why would _I_ want to do _that_?" he drawled, standing from the bed and swaying slightly as he swaggered towards her. "What's in it for me?"

"Less of your life spent in jail and one less misdemeanour on your criminal record would be enough to tempt an ordinary person," she answered, secretly pleased that she wasn't affected in the slightest by his close proximity; Georgie was wrong, she _could_ resist the charms of handsomeness. She made a mental note to tell this to her.

"But I'm not an ordinary person," he told her, tilting his head the better to examine her eyes. "And besides, if you _were_ going to go to the police, you'd have done so by now. So I'll ask you again: What's in it for me?"

She was silent, looking up at him, suddenly realising how his eyes had dropped to her lips, and blushing furiously.

"_No_," she whispered firmly. "No, I'm not going to kiss you."

"As if I could be satisfied with one _kiss_," he half-laughed, though his voice remained low.

"You're a prat, you know that? You think you could steal from me—_twice!_—and then get me alone in one room, and expect me to just open my legs up for you—Well, you're far more arrogant than I realised."

"And yet you're still here."

She looked up at him evenly, hatred causing her eyes to burn.

"Well, _you_ still have my purse."

"And we're back to the beginning: d'you know, I actually could have this conversation all night long?"

Slowly, he leaned closer, mockingly giving her the chance to pull away; but it wasn't until his lips were brushing against hers that Sierra ducked out from under him.

"Why don't you just go have sex with one of your lesbian girlfriends?" she snapped nastily.

"'Ey! Where do you think you're going?"

She spun on her heel, pleased as she saw him wince; her loose hair had inadvertently whipped his face. "Home," she snapped. "Not that it's any of your business."

"Sierra, wait," and he had the audacity to reach out and _grab her arm!_

"_What?_"

"It's too late to be walking—or, indeed, be taking any form of public transportation home," he said to her, pulling her firmly away from the door and escorting her to the bed, which—can you believe it?—he actually _pushed_ her down onto. Sierra's nose wrinkled in distaste against the mattress, and she turned and sat up, hurriedly adjusting her hair and clothing. Then she looked over to Steve, who had sat down beside her and was busily counting out several five, ten and twenty pound notes, brown hair falling into his eyes.

"Where'd you live?" he grunted. "Mayfair?"

"Yes."

"Which part?"

"I'm not telling _you_!"

"Fine."

Now Sierra was more bewildered than ever; surely it wasn't common practice for a complete stranger to pay for a taxi? Unable to control herself, she scooted closer, peering curiously over his shoulder.

"That's my purse!" she screeched, somewhat stupidly, as Steve shifted suddenly, thus preventing her hands from reaching over to grab the object.

"Oh, so it is," he agreed mildly. "What, you didn't expect _me_ to pay for _your_ cab, did you? Come now, Sierra."

"Give it back!—No!—Stop!—You bastard!" she gasped out as he continued to dance out of her reach.

"Persuade me," he leered, and she slapped him out of frustration.

"_Closed fist_," he reminded unperturbedly, demonstrating with one hand whilst making a show of tucking her purse into his jacket pocket with the other.

"_You_—" she stuttered, her hands reaching out with her fists bloody well closed, but he was ready for her this time, grabbing her slender wrists easily in one larger hand and holding them above her head whilst she twisted and struggled helplessly. When her squirming had slowed, Stephen Verne, with a smug smirk, leisurely reached out to tuck a handful of notes down her shirt as though she was some sort of stripper; and what was even more offensive, if that was possible, was the three minutes or so he then spent pulling and tugging and generally adjusting her blouse, even reaching under and round to flitter over her bra.

"Because we wouldn't want you to come undone now, would we?" he smirked.

If it hadn't had been so unladylike, Sierra would have spat at him; as it was, she decided to simply settle for glaring at him through narrowed eyes.

"I _hate_ you."

"I know," he said cheerfully, lowering his hand to give her buttock a friendly pat. "Take care, sweetheart," and he threw her back onto the bed with an indignant squeak before tucking his hands into his pocket and strolling out of the room, whistling a tune in a manner most blithe.

Sierra simply laid on the bed for several minutes, mouth opening and closing as she stared up at the ceiling, two angry red spots scorching her cheeks whilst the words _Bastard, prick, git, dickhead, cunt, wanker, prat,_ and several other offensive and derogatory terms used to describe men in general paraded through her head. Soon, she came to her senses and, her hands shaking with anger, sat up to comb through the numerous piles of outerwear until she came across the various items of clothing that belonged to her and her friends; folding these over her arm, she reached up to pull the money from out of her bra, tucking the flimsy paper firmly into her jeans' pocket before dropping her friends' belongings to shrug on her coat.

On second thoughts, she could do with a mirror. So she picked up her friends' property and strolled to the door, closing it softly behind her and stealing across the landing to what she thought was the bathroom.

"Oh, sorry," she apologised upon opening the door to see two girls kneeling before the bathtub, attempting to pathetically snort up several scraggly lines of cocaine. "I just wanted to check up on my hair and makeup, do you mind? Thanks," and she stepped in, closing the door gently behind her, dropping the coats onto the toilet's lowered lid and turning on the tap. A few minutes later she was drying her hands on the towel, satisfied with her appearance. "See ya," and she exited, moving hurriedly to the stairs before stopping, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

There were two people lying in her way, and it was quite obvious to her that they were beginning to, in the middle of, or had just finished having sex.

_Of all of the places—_ She stopped again upon realising that the boy on top was Steve.

_Oh, God,_ she thought, both angered and disgusted.

…But, seeing as he was so occupied…

Hesitantly, she snuck slowly down, wincing as one of the steps creaked; thank God the two lovebirds didn't notice it. Then again, they _wouldn't_, would they?

Slowly, cautiously down she trod, until she was sitting on one of the steps beside them, the coats clutched protectively to her chest. …Now, which pocket did he put her purse in? Left or right? The girl couldn't remember, damn it.

The other girl, a fellow brunette with curls that were tied back, giggled and buried her fingers into his hair, and Sierra scowled even as she frantically scoured her mind.

_Left or right? Left or fucking right, you fool?_ she thought wildly, feeling more and more uncomfortable as the seconds passed.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," the girl whispered, and Sierra found it miraculous that neither were aware of her presence. Yet.

_Hormones: Thank God for raging hormones._

"Shut up, Cam," he rasped in reply.

"It's Kim."

"That's what I said."

_Bastard!_ her mind screeched; and she was certain that Kim would have said exactly the same thing, had Steve not lowered his head to her neck at that very moment, causing her to gasp.

"Oh, Steve…"

Sierra was beginning to feel vaguely nauseous; she was also overcome with the urge to never, ever, _ever_ use stairs ever again; when she got home, she was going to ask that an elevator—or escalator, she really wasn't very fussy—be installed. Failing that, a chairlift will do.

_Left? It has to be left; his left is the side that's closest to me. Oh, please God, let it be left._

Kim giggled suddenly, causing Sierra to jump back, and the fourteen-year-old grimaced as she saw the older girl tilt her head back, her lips parted.

"_Steve…_"

"Will you _shut up?_" he growled.

_He's not very romantic,_ she thought needlessly, edging slowly closer, hands outstretched; sure enough, there was an unmistakable bulge. Alright, so now all she had to do was—

"Steve, _please_—get your trousers off."

"Ah, you like that, do you?"

…hurry. Throwing caution to the wind, Sierra's hand darted forward, silently grateful that the couple's movements meant that the purse was slowly slipping out anyway.

_Yes!_

"_Steve!_"

"Alright, alright; I'd ask you to keep your knickers on, but…" he laughed, and Kim giggled along with him.

_Disgusting,_ Sierra thought, sneaking slowly down a few steps before straightening and, tucking her purse into her coat, hurrying down the last six steps or so; she supposed she'd have to come to terms with the fact that she'd never see her necklace again, but at least she got her purse back…

"Georgie!" she cried out upon spotting her friends. "Fran! Quick, where's Harry?"

"Here," a voice gasped, and Sierra looked down to see a dirty blonde slumped against a wall, knees drawn to her chest, head bent forward.

"Oh, honey, what happened to you? Never mind—here's your coat—Come _on_!" And she pulled the girl up, shoving the dark blue material into her arms.

"Leaving so soon?" Georgie asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"Yes—and I've got what I wanted back, thanks for asking. Now, your parents all know that you're sleeping over at my place, right? Good, so let's go! It's already half eleven, Liv would be worried!"

"Why the rush?" Georgie questioned, slinging an arm around Frankie's giddy shoulders whilst Sierra supported Harry.

She hesitated for a moment.

"Remember how I'd 'lost' my purse in the first place?"

"Yeah…"

"I reacquired it in much the same fashion."

"Nice one," Georgie approved, dragging Fran towards the door. "Actually, should we stop and call for a minicab? Yeah? I'll just ask Angie," and she dropped Francesca into a chair before weaving through the adolescent crowd.

"You're both idiots, you know that?" Sierra raged at the drunken pair, fiddling nervously with the buttons of her coat; Harry merely whimpered and buried her face into Sierra's shoulder, and she scowled before adjusting her grip accordingly the better to support her.

Five minutes passed, and Sierra soon found herself face-to-face with the hostess.

"Hello, girls," Angie said pleasantly. "I bumped into Georgie; from what she told me, I thought you might need this," and she held out two cups of water.

"Thanks, Angie," Sierra said with a smile, and Angie's darker cheeks coloured a little; Sierra couldn't help but grin at the reaction, flattered as she was.

Angie was a strikingly beautiful creature; her mother had been white, whilst her father hailed from Korea, and as such, she had inherited the best of both races; a wonderfully smooth, golden complexion, sparkling doe eyes with a slight slant, and silky black hair that fell about her shoulders. Her mixed parentage had been one of the reasons Georgie's own parents had desired that their daughter stay away from her; though of course, in the racially tolerant, politically-correct world they now found themselves living in, the pair would never admit it.

"Hey, have you seen Kim?" she asked suddenly as Frankie clumsily slurped up her drink, and Sierra jumped.

"…Kim?"

"Yeah, Kim; my girlfriend, Kim; haven't I introduced you to her?" she smiled conversationally.

"_Why don't you just go have sex with one of your lesbian girlfriends?"_

"Um… No, I don't think you have. Why?"

"Oh, no reason; I just lost her, that's all," she sighed. "To be honest," she continued conversationally, leaning closer with a conspiratorial grin, "I was really looking forward to introducing her to Steve—that's just some bloke I went out with for a total of thirty seconds, by the way, so _technically_, he's my ex."

"Why?" Sierra blurted out before she could stop herself, a strange feeling creeping over her stomach. Angie looked surprised, yet at the same time, _very_ flattered that she sparked such interest in such a beautiful girl.

"Well, Kim didn't know that I tried heterosexuality—which obviously didn't work out for me—and I just think that Steve would really, _really_ like Kim."

_Can't disagree with you there, Angie,_ Sierra thought pityingly whilst silently praying on the girl's behalf that Steve and Kim both came to their senses and stopped; Angie was far too nice a person to go through the pain of double betrayal.

"Hey, listen; look, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, because, you know, I'm _straight_, but—can I have your number?" she asked suddenly of her host; Angie blinked at this blunt request but acquiesced, disappearing for a few seconds, and Sierra turned to look disparagingly down at her companions.

"Why?" she asked them both, reaching out to pull Harry's honey hair away from her face. "Why did you both have to go and get so incredibly drunk? I can't explain this to Olivia!"

Frankie's face blanched, and she curled up on the chair, whilst Harry merely whimpered how sorry she was.

"Oh, shut up," Sierra dismissed. "It's painful, listening to the two of you whine."

Angie returned, a folded slip of paper in hand, and Sierra tucked it into her jeans, where the notes Steve had given her rested.

_Bastard,_ she thought again with a glance at Angie, her lips curling in distaste. Georgie returned several minutes later to announce that the cab should arrive in twenty minutes; Sierra shifted nervously, her fingers reaching into her coat pocket, where her purse laid, fiddling anxiously with zip.

"It's too hot in here, can we wait outside?" she blustered anxiously. "Besides, these two could do with some fresh air."

"There's no such thing as fresh air in London," Georgie grumbled, but complied, pulling Francesca's arm over her shoulders.

"So, what happened with Steve, anyway?" she queried once Frankie and Harry were seated on a low wall outside. "You seem to be a little… agitated."

"He is _such_ a bastard!" Sierra exploded, because, of course, at this particular point in time, her mind couldn't conjure up _Steve_ without the word _bastard_ following in immediate succession.

"Wow, and you're not even gay," Georgie laughed. "Angie told me that only lesbians hate Steve."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because they're the only girls who will go out with him."

"And thus, the only ones who fully realise what a git he is?"

"No; apparently, he's a very good boyfriend, if you ignore all the cheating and sleeping around, of course."

Unbidden, the image of Steve and Kim flashed before her eyes, and Sierra shuddered, though she was certain that the cold had something to do with it.

"So why do they hate him, then?"

"Well, he has a habit of converting them, you see, according to Angie, which makes people think that they weren't really gay in the first, but just wanted attention."

Kim's face flashed before her, head tilted back in delight, her insipid giggling ringing in her ears.

"Fair enough."

And they spent the next seventeen minutes tending to Frankie, who had decided to bend over and vomit, until, at long last, a black car pulled up before them.

"Only three allowed in the back?" Sierra frowned at the driver's words, and turned to look at the three girls behind her so that the man could not see the relief that had passed over her face; she wasn't certain if one had to be sixteen or eighteen to hire a cab, or if there were any age restrictions at all, but she wasn't going to take her chances. "Alright, I'll get in the front," and she opened the door and darted in, leaving Georgie to sarcastically thank her for leaving her to attend their ailing acquaintances.

The brunette sat silently, her face turned towards the passing world outside, fighting down the nausea her restlessly squirming stomach caused.

_I want my necklace back,_ she thought bitterly, fingers reaching up to trail against the discomfortingly naked skin. A red light caused the vehicle to stop directly under a streetlamp, and Sierra took advantage of the external glow to pull out her purse, her fingers tracing over the leather thoughtfully.

A thorough examination revealed that, besides the notes tucked into her jeans, no money—or at least, not a significant amount to warrant notice—had been taken. Her shoulders relaxed, and she smiled in relief, although her stomach's knots seemed to tangle further, even as she asked herself, _So why did he take it, then?_

Her father's face flashed before her, and she opened the wallet again, searching for her debit card; she had only gotten it three months ago, and it was the only access she had to her allowance; it was far easier for her father to pay the money into a bank account, considering how more often than not he was out of the country.

Of course, it had gone.

_**Bastard!**_

She really was incapable of thinking more.

Frantically, her hands turned the item over, snapped it shut, and opened it again, silently praying that it had all been a trick of the light, and that the rectangular plastic would wink up at her in the yellowed glare.

Instead, a small slip of paper, carelessly folded, fell into her lap. Her abdomen cried out in silent discomfort, and her hand went to rest over her navel.

_That…_

Her hand shaking, she reached down, turning over and unfolding the scuffed square, silently reading the hasty yet oddly elegant scrawl;

_Hypocrite.  
Call me.  
Steve._

An eleven-digit number followed this short, almost playful note.

"Cunt," she muttered darkly under breath; and even as her fist scrunched the scribbled paper into a tight ball, she couldn't help but notice how her stomach seemed to have unclenched.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** You should know by now what I'll ask for: opinions on Steve (do you like him _now_?), on Sierra, on other characters, on relationships; opinions, opinions, opinions… Come on, it's Christmas; a time to give and receive…


	7. Flirt

**AN:** More back story in this chapter (accompanied with a scene in the present so you can compare the characters and relationships) and the next one (or possibly two), and then we can all smile and rejoice as the plot shifts back to the 18th century. On a slightly different note, Happy New Year.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Six:** Flirt_

"Julian," Sierra asked suddenly as she stared out at the raining sky, twining the phone cord about her fingers as she curled up in the window seat, "Julian, would you say I was pretty?"

There was a distinct pause in which Julian apparently stopped breathing.

"Julian? Are you alright?"

"…Yes…"

"Answer my question."

"Yes," he told her firmly. "Why do you ask?"

"You never say it."

"I never felt as though I needed to; and besides, you never complained."

"Until now."

"Until now," he conceded.

"Julian…" she began, and then stopped; she was about to ask him if he could do her the favour of kicking the shite out of the insufferable Stephen Verne, thus simultaneously exacting vengeance and retrieving her debit card, but then thought better of it.

"How's your fencing?" she settled for, and it sounded utterly pathetic, even to her own ears.

"It's not bad, but I must admit that now the novelty's worn off, I don't find it as interesting as I did before. But never mind; how's your ballet?"

"Julian, I _never_ found ballet interesting. Frankly, I think it's a waste of my time and my parents' money; I'll never have any use for it; very few ballerinas become successful, and those that do are usually Russian."

"Well, to be fair, it does improve your poise and posture, and God knows you needed that." His tone was light, his words said in jest, and yet Sierra found she was scowling.

"…Thanks for that."

Julian shrugged her bitter sarcasm off.

"What about, you know… your piano lessons? And singing?"

"You know I never was musically inclined; once again, my parents have paid for them since I was seven, and my continual study is born out of an inbred sense of obligation as opposed to a personal interest; just like ballet."

"Gymnastics?" he tried, and she grunted.

"The novelty's worn off; I say, Julian—did you know that gymnastics was a _sport?_"

"…Didn't you?"

"I knew that they _called_ it a sport, but I thought it was classed as a sport in the same sense croquet and javelin are. Now that I realise that it is in fact an actual sport, I must confess I'm not really very keen to continue with it."

There was yet another silence in which Sierra found herself wondering whether she should paint her toenails black or violet. It was so odd, how awkward this conversation seemed; usually, the two of them could spin an hour-long discussion over the most mundane of subjects, like… cheese. But now, there was a decidedly awkward… discomfort, and though she suspected why…

Hesitantly, her treacherous eyes darted to her desk, where the slip of paper with Steve's number scrawled in that oddly elegant hand of his lay. She didn't like how the whiteness stood out against the sable of her writing desk; in the dim lamplight, it looked like a shining beacon in the impenetrable darkness, beckoning her to come to it.

But Sierra wasn't in darkness, and Steve certainly wasn't her light. Silently berating herself, she returned her attention to Julian's warm, familiar, _loving_ words.

"…Horse riding? You always loved horse riding; quite the equestrian… I still remember when you were eight…"

"Well, it's rather troublesome to chase a fox on horseback through Trafalgar Square, don't you think, Julian? Not with all those pigeons flapping about."

"Oh! So your parents have finally allowed you to join them on the hunt, then?"

"Yes; since I'm fourteen, I am considered old enough to watch a wild animal get ripped to bloody pieces by a pack of hounds."

"But you were only fourteen a month ago."

"I went on one hunt in August; my birthday's in October—"

"_Late_ October."

"Well, I was practically fourteen," she dismissed.

"Did you catch anything?"

"The dogs were able to sniff out a poor creature with a leg caught in a farmer's trap."

"What happened? How was it killed?"

"It—" Sierra began, and stopped, swallowing nervously.

"My father gave me the rifle… He always takes a firearm, you know, so that—so that… Anyway, he gave it to me, and…"

"And?"

"…I shot."

"Oh, sweetheart, don't; don't cry; you put it out of its misery. It's nothing to be upset about…" And he continued to comfort her in this vein for several minutes, but the girl didn't notice; she was too busy subduing her tears to notice.

Eventually Julian, no doubt perturbed by Sierra's lacking response, informed her that he had homework to do, and with a heartfelt promise to visit her on Saturday, bade her farewell. Sierra herself put the telephone back into its grey cradle, and for several minutes sat with her legs pulled into her chest, chin resting on her knees as she stared out at the slate sky.

She was worried, of course she was; she couldn't tell Olivia, her parents' housekeeper and her guardian when the pair were away, which was frequent, that her card had been stolen, for Liv would call the police, and they would want to know where, and how, and when, and who, and she was _supposed_ to have been playing Lady Macbeth that day…

Stephen Verne had her trapped, and she knew that she had to call him.

But what did he want from her? And would she be prepared to give it? And more importantly, _could_ she give it to him? Did she have what he wanted, or did he just _think_ she did?

Sullenly, she unfolded her limbs and, phone in hand, slipped back into her room, snatching the flimsy square off of her dark desk with a childish petulance before sitting down cross-legged on the carpeted floor, glancing moodily down at the paper before lifting the handset and dialling the number.

Two seconds later, and she slammed the handset down, silently berating herself as the number _1471_ flashed before her. She didn't like the idea of his knowing her phone number, much less her home one. So she picked up the handset once more and, with a steadying breath, dialled 1471, followed immediately by his number.

Five vaguely muffled rings, only to be greeted by the cold, mechanical voice of an answer phone; she was so startled that she slammed the device down once more, leaning back into the hard leg of her desk, breathing heavily.

_Get a hold of yourself._

Straightening her back, she pulled the device closer to her, her fingers flitting over the square keys, and waited the twenty seconds or so before that robotic voice greeted her once again.

"Hi, Steve? It's Sierra, do you remember me? We… met, at Angie's party about… three weeks ago? Listen, I was wondering… I don't know what you want from me, but I would really, _really_ like to have my necklace and card back, so um… I'll try you tomorrow; I'd give you my number, but I really don't like the idea of you knowing—"

There was static, a sudden fumbling, and then that vaguely familiar, drawling baritone of, "And why not?"

She was caught unawares, and there was a silence in which Sierra attempted to gather her wits.

"Well, it just seems… I mean, isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"…I don't have my own line," she rushed in a hiss. "I don't like the idea of you calling and having someone else pick up and talk to you. It's unseemly."

"Well if it's so unseemly, perhaps I should just spare you the anguish and hang up—"

"No!" she snapped, fear gripping her heart. "No, I… it's just… I'm sorry, but… I'm not really meant to talk to boys. I didn't mean for it to sound like that."

"So am I forbidden fruit then?"

"You're forbidden, but I wouldn't call you a fruit," she said, and he laughed softly. _Oh, God…_ she thought, stretching out on the soft cream carpet, the cord tangling in her toes. He had a wonderful laugh.

"I'd really like to see you again," he told her, honestly enough, and she once again found herself caught off guard.

_What—he just said—Just like that?_

"Is Saturday good for you?" he continued, and before she could stop herself, Sierra had blurted out,

"I can't; I'm seeing my boyfriend."

There was a sudden silence in which she held her breath, ears pricked for the familiar dial tone.

"Well," he said at last. "To be honest, I… don't know why I'm surprised. You would have a boyfriend."

His quiet voice filled her with guilt.

"But I can cancel," she said quickly.

"You'd cancel?"

"Yes."

"For me?"

"Yes."

"You'd cancel on your boyfriend for me?"

"Well, you're far more important."

"Oh, am I now?" he said, his voice returning to its smug drawl, and she felt her cheeks heating.

"I… have to get my card back. Don't you see?"

"Oh, yes," he agreed smoothly, that smirk colouring his tone.

"But it has to be in the day," she said to him urgently. "I can say I'm meeting a friend of mine if we meet in the day."

"And what should we do in the day?"

"…I don't know. Something legal."

"Something boring, you mean?"

"And something safe. And in a public place."

"…Right." He sounded far from enthusiastic, she realised with a frown.

"And you have to give my debit card and necklace back to me," she stipulated childishly.

"I promise," he swore in a vaguely patronising tone. "Do you know The Intrepid Fox, just off Wardour Street?"

"What?"

"That's a 'no' then," he sighed. "Alright; do you know Wardour Street?"

There was only a blank silence.

"Are you familiar with the London Underground?" he persisted.

"Don't be so bitter; yes, I am familiar with the Tube."

"Right; so—"

"Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"Why must we meet at this… this…"

"Pub," he supplied.

"_Pub,_" she agreed. "Why must we meet at this awkwardly placed pub that no one's ever heard off? Far easier to meet at some sort of tourist attraction."

"_Because,_" he said to her, vaguely irritated, "I'll be down there at six o'clock in the morning, helping with the orders and supplies, and won't be free until half-twelve; if I have to travel from Soho to—Mayfair or wherever it is you live, I'm sure to be more than a little pissed."

"…Oh."

"'Oh.'"

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen," he said to her, and she found herself thinking, _Julian's age, then._ "Why?"

"Surely that's illegal; I'm sure you have to be eighteen to work in such close proximity to alcohol."

He laughed softly at this.

"Darling, you've never been to The Intrepid Fox, and as such, have absolutely no idea what a shit hole it is."

"So why do you work there, then?"

"I need the money; and besides, it beats four straight hours at a checkout everyday; at least I'm actually _doing_ something."

Sierra had wrinkled her nose at the mere _thought_ of heavy lifting, and looked down at her manicured nails in concern.

"And after your… six hours of manual labour?"

"Let me surprise you," he said to her in a voice that made her shiver.

"Alright, then; half twelve at your Intrepid Fox. Um… how do you get there?" she questioned timidly, and he laughed.

"Get the Tube to Piccadilly Circus, and walk up Shaftesbury Avenue—"

"Wait! I… I think I ought to write this down."

He chuckled again.

"If you must."

Cradling the phone between her ear and shoulder, Sierra reached up to grope for a pen and an exercise book; opening the book upside-down, she flicked a few pages forwards, pass the various doodles and scribbled conversations she had had in bored German lessons, and came to a clean page.

"Alright…"

Steve slowly and patiently repeated the directions to her, and she obediently jotted down _Piccadilly, Shaftesbury Ave exit, Wardour St—halfway up on left, corner. Red and gold sign._

"Got that?"

"Yes."

"Read it back to me."

She did so, albeit with some resentment, and he expressed his approval.

"Steve?" she said quickly as he began to say goodbye.

"Yeah?"

"At the risk of your antagonism," she began, her words carefully measured, "I just want to let you know that if you _hadn't_ had stolen from me—twice—I would _not_ be meeting you this Saturday—and I certainly wouldn't have cancelled on my boyfriend either."

"Oh, I know," Steve told her, his voice mocking in its solemnity. "Why else did you think I took your purse?"

Her jaw dropped open, and she was about to snap some insult—or possibly a question—but the dial tone was already ringing in her ears.

* * *

"Steve sounds like a prick," Janelle said dismissively, topping up her glass; the pair had moved into the kitchen, thus providing the women with the privacy they needed to talk freely. "Only _you_ would like him."

Sierra's lips twisted in what may have been a smile as she carefully lowered herself onto a stool; at Christmas parties, there always was that one person who could be seen discreetly consuming liberal amounts of alcohol, and this year Sierra had graciously (if not gracefully) taken that particular role upon herself. Although she wasn't one of those attention-seeking drunks that embarrassed themselves by singing or shouting or telling crude, unfunny jokes, Sierra's tongue, already so blunt and tactless whilst sober, became considerably looser whilst inebriated. It was no wonder Sierra rarely allowed herself drink.

"He's a lot better now he's grown up," she insisted. "He's a good boy now…" She discreetly reached out for Janelle's bottle of champagne, spilling a few sparkling droplets on the otherwise immaculate tabletop. "Speaking of good boys," she continued, standing, a hand reaching out to balance herself, "Why don't I check up on Johnnie and his little friends? I'm worried they'll find his present; little children are never asleep in these situations," and she gestured towards the closed door.

"Go ahead," Janelle permitted. "I need to get back out and socialize anyway." She pulled the champagne from out of her friend's reach before she went, earning a scowl for all her troubles, and vanished. Sierra pouted, downing what remained of the alcohol before setting the glass down and making her way up to where Johnnie and his cousins supposedly slept.

Just as she'd suspected, the bed and two sleeping bags on the floor were empty. Sierra smiled in amusement, quietly cursing as she tripped over a stray dinosaur. Scowling, she kicked the stuffed creature away before turning on her heel and stumbling slightly down the hall, pausing as she noticed a light creeping out from under Janelle's bedroom door.

_Amateurs,_ she thought fondly as she leaned closer to the door.

"Johnnie?" she called softly. "Jordan? Adam? Are you in there, boys?" And she pressed her ear against the door, snickering as she heard three voices whispering to one another in panic. Against her better judgement, she decided to give the children a minute or two to gather themselves and hide.

A sudden scream changed this decision, and Sierra burst in just in time to see a curly-haired boy falling out of Janelle's closet, whimpering in pain and panic.

"Adam!" she cried, rushing towards the boy and gathering him up in her arms, kissing his head and rubbing his back soothingly; Adam, for his part, simply clung tightly to her bare arms, burying his face into her shoulder as Sierra murmured gentle words of comfort. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Johnnie and Jordan emerging from beneath the bed, both wearing expressions of confused bewilderment. Jordan hesitantly approached his twin, whilst Johnnie merely stood looking at the closet in distrust for several long moments before darting forward to cower behind Sierra's back.

"Adam, what's wrong?" Sierra queried gently. "Are you afraid of the dark?"

Adam pulled away slightly to glare at her; he was six years old, not a baby like Johnnie! Too old to be scared of the _dark_.

"No," he told her severely, puffing his chest out in an attempt to appear manly and courageous; a ploy which might have worked, had he not been curled up in Sierra's lap. "No, I'm not scared of the dark."

"Then what's wrong, honey?" she said, keeping her voice even and free of any traces of patronization.

"Nothing's wrong," he insisted, having conveniently forgotten his girlish shriek of terror.

"Darling, you screamed."

"Eww…" a third voice said, and the remaining three looked up to see Jordan attempting to pull out a large, greyish object. Johnnie was immediately on his feet, toddling over with the purpose of helping his older friend; Sierra merely frowned in confusion, rocking Adam back and forth in comfort.

"Oh my God…" she muttered, staring in disgust at what she realised was a mirror; the actual silvered glass was quite ordinary and inoffensive to the extreme; but the actual frame…

"Oh, you poor baby," she cooed, kissing Adam's soft hair, and Johnnie and Jordan narrowed their eyes in resentful unison. "Who'd have thought there'll be a skeleton—well, certain parts of a skeleton—in Janelle's closet, hmm?"

"W-Why is that mirror made of bones?" Adam squeaked, bravado abandoned as he clung tighter to Sierra's shoulders.

"God knows," she replied, ruffling his hair affectionately whilst silently promising herself to interrogate Janelle first thing in the morning. "Boys, you have one very morbid auntie…" And then she turned to Johnnie and Jordan, and her expression grew stern.

"And what are you two doing, standing there gawking?" she said in her most authoritative voice. "You're not going to find your presents here tonight—as a matter of fact, if you stay up late, you're probably not going to get them. Santa doesn't deliver gifts to naughty boys who stay up all night."

"Santa isn't real," Jordan piped up, and Johnnie's brown eyes widened.

"…What?" he asked brokenly, and Sierra shot Jordan a warning look over the four-year-old's dark head whilst simultaneously kissing his twin's forehead.

"He _is_ real," she said to Johnnie affectionately. "Jordan was just being difficult, _weren't_ you, Jordan?"

"He's _not_ real, Sierra," Jordan told her earnestly, doing his best to dispel with the adult's naïveté and inadvertently causing Johnnie to cover his ears and whimper whilst Sierra narrowed her blue eyes in a glare. Sensing the hostility in the situation, he pointed an accusing finger at the boy on her lap. "Adam told me so, didn't you, Adam? That Santa Claus isn't real?"

Johnnie was very nearly on the brink of tears at this point, and Sierra turned her cold gaze on the child that merely seconds before she was comforting.

"Oh, did you _really_, Adam?" she asked in a misleadingly sweet tone. "And exactly _how_ did you come across this fount of information?"

Adam was shifting uncomfortably, fear of a very different kind clutching his little heart. "My—My—My brother told me so…"

"_What?_" Jordan cried, aghast at this news, and Sierra beckoned Johnnie forward so that she might comfort him too. "_George_ told you? And you _believed_ him? Adam, you're an idiot!" And he leapt forward to hit his twin.

This didn't go down too well with Adam; fear and vulnerability were immediately forgotten as he scrambled from out of Sierra's lap to attack his slightly younger brother; Johnnie took immediate advantage of this and curled up in his friend's vacant place, where he took to burying his head in the woman's chest; and Sierra carefully scooped the boy up in one arm before crawling over to intercept the fight as best she could in the circumstances.

"Jordan—Adam—Ow, that hurt!—Stop it!—_Enough!_" And she pulled Jordan up from out of his brother's reach, doing her best to balance the two boys on each of her hips. "Adam, stop—I'll tell your mo—mummy and daddy how you've been behaving!"

Adam reluctantly deflated, a hand reaching up to rub his cheek; Jordan nestled further into Sierra's grip, and took the opportunity to smirk and blow a raspberry at the seemingly disfavoured child.

"Jordan!"

"_He_ started it," the six-year-old whinged, but Sierra remained strangely unmoved.

"No, you did—Why did you hit your brother, hmm?"

"Because he listened to George; and everybody knows George is the family idiot who doesn't believe in _anything_—not even the tooth fairy…" Jordan whined. "Sierra… Adam really made me believe that there _wasn't_ a Santa Claus…" and he tried to burst into tears so that she might kiss and hug him like she had done with Adam and Johnnie.

He failed. Miserably.

"Alright, the three of you—I'm putting you to bed. Come on." And she gave Adam a gentle nudge with her foot.

None of the children were willing to fall asleep, of course; Johnnie in particular was rather excited, crawling from under his bedcovers to excitedly jump up and down on the mattress and demanding if Santa was _really_ real or not. Sierra decided to let the boy continue, and just as she'd suspected, the toddler soon grew tired of his exertions, nestling obediently under the duvet and clinging tightly to his brightly grinning Nemo, causing Sierra to smile fondly.

The twins proved to be more of a handful; Jordan still hadn't forgiven Adam for believing _George_, of all people, and Adam still hadn't forgiven Jordan for attacking him: As a result, the boys had taken to pulling and poking and pinching at one another amid petulant demands for apologies. Sierra solved this dilemma by dragging each sleeping bag to opposite corners of the room and bribing the boys with hugs and kisses if they _swore_ to put their differences aside. This had a swift and immediate effect that one would have expected from a boy twice their age, but Sierra didn't complain.

After closing the door carefully behind her and listening quietly to make certain that there were no further secret expeditions being plotted out, Sierra quietly tiptoed to a spare room Sean and Janelle used as an extremely large storage closet: The latter had placed all delicate, sentimental items in several boxes, and had lined the floor with several newspapers, despite Sierra's assurances that Johnnie's present was fully house-trained.

"Quiet," she giggled as the puppy shot out from the slowly opening door, frowning as the creature attempted to jump up her skirt. "Down, boy, down; _no_—for legal and moral reasons, I _cannot_ let you jump up there—Hey, what did I just tell you?" And she bent and scooped the puppy up, laughing softly as it licked her face affectionately.

"I just wanted to check up on you," she said to the animal as she closed the door. "Have a little more patience, hmm? I know it's frustrating to stay locked up in here, but tomorrow I swear you'll be free to roam the house however you—Whoa!—Careful!" And she tilted her head away, fearing that he might swallow her earring. She still remembered the trouble she had gone to in order to secure Janelle's approval of the gift; the two were arguing heatedly over the phone, as they occasionally did, and Janelle was just stating unwaveringly that Johnnie didn't really _want_ a puppy anyway when their irate conversation was unexpectedly interrupted by an agitated and uninvited squeak of,

"Johnnie wants a puppy! Johnnie wants a puppy!"

"…Johnnie," Janelle had asked suspiciously, "Are you on the phone?"

There was a squeak of terror, followed by a clattering sound; seconds later, the sound of hurriedly scurrying feet could be heard pattering pass Janelle's door, and when the woman went to check on the boy, she found the child curled innocently up in bed, thumb in mouth, looking for all the world like a little angel. It was this, more than anything, that finally convinced Janelle to relent, which was how the Jack Russell came to be licking Sierra's face at this current point in time.

"A little longer, hmm?" she said to the enthusiastic pet. "Just the night…" And she hugged and cooed at the animal until she deemed it safe to set the creature down and sneak out of the spare room and into hers. After locking the door, she sat on her bed, carefully removing her jewels and affectionately placing them back in their box; the party was far from over, but Sierra had decided to turn in early, knowing as she did that by at least five or six she'd be jumped upon by a small gaggle of children. (Janelle had warned her of Johnnie's persuasive, door-opening whimper, having herself been awakened by it several times in the past.)

_When I get back, I have to return them,_ she thought wistfully, her fingers tracing the air above the gems; which was a shame, to say the least, because they really were beautiful. Slowly, she undid her hair, setting the pins down on the bedside cabinet, and reached back to unzip her dress.

_I wonder what Steve's doing?_ she thought as she carefully folded the teal material, and froze as the unbidden thought registered in her mind.

Beside her, there was a sudden beep, followed by that annoying noise that accompanied vibration, and Sierra started before relaxing upon realising that it was only her phone alerting her of a text message.

It was, of course, from Steve, who had playfully written,

_Merry Xmas; did you like your present?_

Sierra smiled, pleased that he hadn't forgotten the rant-tirade hybrid that had been unleashed upon him less than a week ago, about the evils of abbreviated words that accompanied texts and chat on internet forums.

_I'll call him,_ she thought, realising with a guilty pang that she missed the sound of his voice.

"I didn't expect to be hearing from you so soon," he said to her upon answering. "Season's greetings, love; have you found your gift yet?"

"Yes, and I can't believe how stubborn you can be."

"You've only just noticed?"

"Hmm; your mulishness seems to have worsened in the time we've been apart. But thank you, Stephen. Really."

"It's no problem," he shrugged off.

"Yes, but I… I haven't gotten _you_ anything."

"Don't worry about it; _technically_, I didn't go out and buy you something either. They're another woman's leftovers."

_What an idiot Nicole was,_ Sierra couldn't help but think, turning to look at the jewels once more.

"Well, yes, but…" She flustered. "You'll be pleased to hear they went with my dress."

"They're colourless diamonds and white pearls; they'll go with anything _you'll_ wear."

She laughed. "A word of advice; if you're ever offered the job of a personal stylist, _please_ reject it."

"But they _do_," he insisted. "The assistant said—"

"That's just a part of their sales pitch; are you really so naïve?"

"Actually, I was about to say that the assistant told me that when a truly beautiful woman wears Mikimoto jewellery, they'll always complement _her_, and not her outfit," he replied smoothly, and Sierra felt herself flushing even as she frowned. "So, you know, you can wear them even when you're naked, and they'll still—"

"Stop right there; I think I know where this is going," and the man cursed her foresight.

"I hadn't even gotten to the part where I was about to suggest that whipped cream would be the perfect accessory to your naked pearl-wearing self; I mean, pearls are practically cream-coloured, aren't they?"

"I don't like whipped cream," she told him dismissively. "I prefer chocolate myself."

There was a pause at this.

"…Yeah: Actually, I can see that working just as well. Isn't that odd?"

"Well, I _did_ assume that you could see it," she hummed, ever the eternal ingénue, and he chuckled.

"…So… What have you been up to, then?" she said, reclining on the bed in only her underwear and wondering what Steve would think of _that_. "How's your girlfriend… Sonja?"

"We broke up," he said to her facetiously.

"Oh, I'm so sorry; does that mean you're spending Christmas alone, then? Well, not _alone_, but—"

"No! No no no no no. Of course not."

"You have another girlfriend?" she asked, sitting up at this and wondering how he could have courted a girl so quickly.

"No; actually, I decided for the holiday season to get back with an ex."

Sierra's stomach turned at this, but she kept her face and voice calm.

"Nicole?" she guessed.

"No; Mark. Didn't I tell you about Mark?"

Sierra's stomach unclenched at this, and she smiled; for some twisted reason, she preferred the idea of Steve romantically involved with another man as opposed to a woman.

"Got sick of women, eh?" she teased, and heard—_heard!_—him frown.

"No, it's just… Oh, this is going to sound a little odd and silly, but…" he began before sighing. "You see, I have this… this sort of tradition; every Christmas, I alternate between girlfriends and boyfriends. You know, just to keep the scales balanced… Does that sound weird to you?"

Sierra nodded in understanding at this, not bothering to ask him what he would do if he was alone; a man like Steve was never alone. "…No; no, it doesn't. Actually, it sounds sort of sweet; sort of like you're trying _desperately_ to cling onto your bisexuality. Are you really so insecure?"

"No," he pouted. "It's just… this pattern I've been following, although I suppose you may be right; I am becoming more and more inclined towards the so-called fairer sex, although it could be something to do with the fact that you can't impregnate men…"

_He wants to have a child; possibly _children, a voice told her needlessly. _Jack never actually _wanted _children, did he? They just sort of happened to him…_

_Not at all like Steve._

_Or you._

Sierra quelled this thought and pushed the smug little creature to the back of her mind, lowering herself onto the mattress.

"So; you're with Mark. How's the gay sex?"

"Fucking fantastic," he answered unashamedly, and she laughed.

"I thought it might be. But to get back on topic," she craftily steered, "As I was about to say, I also have a sort of… almost similar… Christmas tradition of my own, actually."

"Oh, really? Do you switch between men and women as well? Please say yes."

"I said 'almost similar;' it's not _quite_ the same…"

"Well, what is it?" he demanded childishly, which was highly ironic, considering the subject matter.

"Well… I always have sex on Christmas Eve. _Always._"

"Really?"

"Uh-huh: Since I lost my virginity, or had you not noticed that as a teenager I always demanded to see you at _that_ particular time of year?"

"You _demanded_ during the rest of the year as well," he muttered under his breath, but not quiet enough for Sierra's ears to not pick it up.

"_Anyway_… Yes, that's my little Christmas tradition."

"Is that it?" he asked, clearly unimpressed. "Sierra, I must confess I'm disappointed in you; I expected something a little more… _adventurous_. Deviant, even. This is actually quite tame, especially for _you_."

"Oh, honey," she sighed exasperatedly. "You didn't let me finish."

"I'm still waiting to be impressed."

_Oh, Steve,_ she thought wickedly. _Trust me, you will be._

"Do you remember… when I was seventeen, and my school forced me and my classmates to go out and raise money for some charity or other? It was at this particular time of year."

"Um…"

"I was wearing a short little red Santa-esque outfit with thigh-high boots and a little whip to punish Rudolph and all the other naughty reindeer, do you remember?"

"It's all coming back to me," he said quickly, and she smirked. "Yeah, what about it?"

She paused for effect before saying lazily, "I still have that outfit."

"…Ah."

"And the whip. And the boots. And, of course, the little hat. A couple of years ago, I acquired a pair of rather festive handcuffs."

Steve made a strangled sort of noise that could have been a grunt.

"I like to think it completes the collection, don't you agree?"

When there was no comprehensible answer Sierra, positively leering now, continued in that lackadaisical way of hers, "I mean, obviously, the dress is a little snug; my boobs are practically bursting out—I'm wearing it right now, you know—and the skirt doesn't cover my thighs as much as it used to, but I can still squeeze in… I obviously can't wear any lingerie or anything underneath it, though."

"… Obviously," Steve agreed, although it came out a little quieter and higher than was respectable for a thirty-year-old man.

"But the problem is… Oh, Stephen, the problem is that I can't find any attractive men I _want_ to sleep with," she whined pitifully.

"Well, you know, it's still pretty early over here—only six in the morning—I'm sure there are a couple of transatlantic flights I could book, and I'll be with you either on or just after Christmas Day—"

"Oh darling, don't go to all the trouble—"

"It is absolutely _no_ trouble!"

"But what about Mark?"

"_Sod_ Mark."

"Steve, really, it's fine," she assured him, her grin widening with every second. "I mean, it doesn't _have_ to be with a man, does it?"

Steve, for some inexplicable reason, seemed to be very intrigued by this.

"There _were_ a couple of attractive girls downstairs…" she continued in false innocence.

"Sierra, I absolutely _insist_ I fly over—I'm not saying you _shouldn't_ go ahead and seduce one of your female friends or acquaintances or whatever, because you _should_—And when _I_ get there I'll just… Casually slip in."

There was a slight pause, and then Steve added, "I didn't mean for it to sound _quite_ like that."

Sierra bit her lip to keep from giggling before saying carefully, "No, really, Steve, don't, don't bother; I'll prefer a man, but I'm sure a woman would be just as fun; I haven't really had a lot of experience with lesbian sex, and it's high time I start catching up, don't you agree?"

The silence was broken by an odd sound which Sierra (correctly) interpreted as Steve nodding vigorously.

"Oh, and by the way? I just want you to know that I have repaid my debt."

There was a confused pause.

"Beg pardon?"

"I gave you a Christmas present," she explained to him simply. "You know, in return for the pearls?"

"And what, pray tell, is that?" he challenged.

"A masturbatory aid," she smirked in reply, pausing to allow the full implication of her words to sink in, silent when she heard him make an odd sound that was a cross between a chuckle of understanding and a whimper of disappointment.

_Not such a naïve, innocent schoolgirl _now_, am I, Stephen?_ she thought triumphantly. Aloud, she said,

"Merry Christmas, Steve."

"Oh, trust me," he leered, "it will be."

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Thoughts?


	8. Rebel Without a Coat

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Seven:** Rebel Without a Coat_

"That's sort of dangerous, don't you think?" Georgie was saying later that evening as the sky turned a darker shade of grey.

"I know."

"I mean, you don't know anything about him—"

"I know."

"And you're just gonna go and meet him this weekend without knowing where he'll be taking you—"

"I _know_."

"And he's a thief, at least, probably more—"

"I _know!_ Georgiana, I _know_, alright?" Sierra finally interrupted, twirling the cord distractedly about her fingers. "That's why I'm calling you, so that if I _do_ get kidnapped and molested and ransomed, or—or taken to an isolated hotel and knifed by a deluded transvestite in the shower, at least _someone_ will know who's responsible."

"Saw _Psycho_ last night as well?" Georgie guessed.

"What's your point?" Sierra snapped.

"No point, just—Hey, exactly what were you and Steve doing in the shower anyway?"

"Nothing—Well, something, obviously. I don't know; possibly thrown in there to clean myself up after performing whatever perverted deviant sexual acts he forced me to do at gunpoint."

"Yeah, like he needs a gun to get you to do any of _that_."

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Well, I'm just saying that if you do end up stealing money from an employer you are not yet working for and checking into a desolate American motel one night, you probably _won't_ be knifed in the shower 'cause you'll be too busy having underage but consensual sex with Stephen Verne, that's all—considering how you do, after all, _like_ him," Georgie explained flippantly, obviously unable to see Sierra's slack jaw and fiery eyes. "Nah, you'll probably have your throat slit during an orgasm or something. Doesn't sound like such a bad way to die, to tell you the truth."

"Yeah, if one of your greatest sexual fantasies is to be asphyxiated whilst in the midst of a violent rape," Sierra shot back sullenly. "Or maybe regular, run-of-the-mill bad sex."

"Huh?"

"Well… Steve doesn't really give the impression of being a particularly sensitive or caring lover—I mean sensitive as in in touch with his partner's needs, not sensitive as in gentle and considerate… Although come to think of it, I don't think he's that, either."

"What are you talking about?" Georgie demanded.

"I'm just saying that I think Steve will be really bad in bed: That's all."

"Why?"

"He gives off that impression; as if he's a really selfish lover. Didn't you get that sense?"

"Honey, you've only met him once."

"And that's the impression that I got. First impressions count, don't they?"

"Well, yes, but I can't help but wonder exactly what got you into that train of thought in the first place: you have no business to analyse his bedroom skills, unless, of course, you want to—"

"_No._"

"No?"

"I don't," Sierra assured her sullenly, scowling as she heard her friend sigh.

"So why are you meeting him, then? _Really._"

"You know very well why—"

"Sierra, please don't make excuses; it's patronising and insulting to the extreme."

"Alright," she allowed, "so he may be attractive—so _I_ may find him very attractive, I told you all that the first night I met him, do you remember?—But he's absolutely _vile_, and not the sort of person I would choose to spend my time with."

"Yes, but to be fair, he does… have that sort of… _appeal_, doesn't he?"

Sierra bit her lip to keep from blurting out _You think so too?_

"Appeal?"

"Well, you know… You're not meant to like him. You're not meant to fraternize with him. You're meant to stay as far away from him as possible: it's the very essence of attracting opposites."

"Yes, he does have _that_ sort of appeal—but do you know what sort of girl finds that attractive?"

"Anyone under the age of thirty who's not zealously religious or boring?"

"Girls who want to rebel: to rebel against _anything_; their parents, their friends, their social class, their culture… And why would I want to do that?" she asked lazily, stretching out on her carpet once more. "I have this fantastic, steady, secure perfect life; if I let Steve in, he'll only fuck it up."

"Well, that's the thing, isn't it?" Georgie pressed. "You—well, technically, _we_ both do, but yours is more traditional—I mean, you have this great house—"

"I have _four_ great houses, thank you very much, not to mention what my uncle owns."

"See what I mean?—Alright, so you have _several_ great houses—and wealthy parents with a killer DNA combination that leads to a small brood of picture-perfect children—Rich people are meant to be _ugly_, you know, particularly if they're from aristocratic families, like you are—"

"_Technically—_"

"I know, I know, your mother's bourgeois and your uncle was the one who inherited everything, now will you stop interrupting? …Where was I? Oh right—basically, your life is boring as hell. You know it, I know it, and Steve probably knows it too. So of course you're wanting to rebel on _some_ level."

"That may be, but it's not on a level that I'm aware of; I use my head for thinking, my gut for digestion, and my heart for pumping oxygenated blood throughout my body."

"Sorry?"

"I don't follow my 'gut instincts,' and I most certainly _do not_ listen to my heart," she simplified.

"See? _Boring._"

"Look, I know how lucky I am, alright? And I'm not going to risk any of that." She didn't add that she was scared of what her father would do to her if she stepped out of line; not only was it a sign of weakness, it was also highly melodramatic.

"_Boring,_" Georgie crooned.

"Stop calling me boring; it's childish and irritating."

"_You're_ not boring—we wouldn't bitch about you behind your back half as much as we do if you _were_—but your life most certainly is."

"And I like it like that: you _have_ to stop reading those historical romance novels about the bored wealthy aristocratic girl who spends her idle, leisured days yearning for more and suddenly finds herself swept off of her feet by a dashing highwayman—"

"No, no, this one, _Corsets and Cutlasses_, is about _pirates_," Georgie corrected, and Sierra made a noise of distaste.

"Oh God, those are even worse," she muttered; at least with highwaymen, there was _some_ basis in reality—or rather, history. Swift Nick, the inspiration for Harrison Ainsworth's portrayal of Dick Turpin in _Rookwood_, for example.

"Why, Sierra? Do you not desire to be seduced by a dashing, golden-grinned, swashbuckling buccaneer? Miss Alyssa Harwood of Brighton most certainly would," and there was a slight crackling of pages from over the phone.

"Hmm; _would_ I pass up the opportunity to go to bed with a scurvy-ridden, rotten-toothed, syphilitic felon who's allergic to soap and has very probably buggered a dog, cat, or indeed any other domesticated animal when whores, unconscious crewmen, and potential rape victims were scarce? I think I would."

"…Alright; would you sleep with a regular, run-of-the-mill sailor?"

"In _this_ day and age…?"

And so they continued to talk about nothing in particular (a discussion which has decidedly been omitted in light of the fact that there shall be no further dramatic irony contained therein) which itself ended when Sierra realised she had an essay to complete (or rather, begin) for English Lit. It was on Shakespeare; the task was an ambiguous piece designed to set the students on a whirlwind of questions focusing mainly on the contrasting and complementing portrayal of women in Macbeth, Hamlet, Othello and another play of the pupil's choosing (since subtly instilling into their students the elusive virtue of second-nature research was the primary aim of the task, as Sierra had already figured out, with the outcome of the actual essay mattering very little) alongside with any other major theme the girl in question was able to pick up that effectively linked the four plays together.

_Well, bollocks to that,_ she thought, setting her pen down with a sigh. It was almost insultingly easy; she'll begin on Sunday. That being said, she did jot down a few notes, _vengeance, insanity, power, love(?)_ and after a moment's silent debate, crossed out her words to write _Stephen Verne is a prick._ She paused, leaning back to admire her handiwork before scribbling it out, slamming her pen violently down and burying her face in her hands.

_I'm obsessed with him,_ she thought wildly. _Good God, I've only _really _met him _once_, and I'm completely obsessed with him; this doesn't bode well for my exams…_

Perhaps she should get started on Shakespeare, after all. So she got up, retrieved her pen, and went over to her bookshelf, where she pulled out a _Complete Works of Shakespeare_ (a beautifully bound volume that her late grandfather had left to her in his will, God rest his soul), set it steadily down on her desk, nestled comfortably into her chair, and proceeded to flip carelessly through its contents, looking for a title that would catch her eye.

_Henry VIII: Of course, it's _perfect_: women, power, love…_

And she stopped her lazy page-turning, leaning greedily forward to read,

_So much the more  
Must pity drop upon her. Verily,  
I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,  
And range with humble livers in content,  
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,  
And wear a golden sorrow._

Sierra's face contorted in displeasure, and she promptly slammed the book shut, as though the Bard had personally offended her, and then wondering absently why she had reacted so violently, because there was absolutely no parallel in that short passage to her current state.

Was there?

_I am going to kill Georgie for this,_ she promised herself. _Tomorrow—no, not tomorrow, I need her alive for Saturday… Sunday then; but there's a Physics test on Tuesday…_ And her thoughts continued in this vein for quite some time until she was forced to grudgingly conclude that, until the end of her compulsory academic career, it would serve to be in her best interests if Georgie remained alive and in good health, by the end of which she would have most certainly forgiven and probably forgotten why she wished to prematurely end her best friend's life in the first place, not least because she didn't know _now_. Somewhat hesitantly, she opened the book back to that offensive passage, and read the few lines above it;

_O, God's will! much better  
She ne'er had known pomp: though't be temporal,  
Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce  
It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging  
As soul and body's severing._

She had read enough—well, enough to calm her nerves for the time being, at any rate; _divorce_ had reinforced the true subject of the play in her mind, that of Henry VIII's self-declared dissolution of his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, who had been stripped of her title, her daughter, and her throne, so that the 'lowly born' Anne Boleyn might take her place: There was absolutely no trace of idle adolescence or sexual awakening or a love that transcended social boundaries in _that_ tale.

(Alright, perhaps there was, a little; but it would have been very arrogant, not to mention somewhat ridiculous, to compare herself to Henry VIII, and Steve to Anne Boleyn, and Julian to Catherine of Aragon, not to mention that it also smacked of slight transvestism, which she was completely against, but never mind that.)

_Catherine understandably portrayed sympathetically,_ she scrawled down, _as is Anne Boleyn—to certain extent; may have been portrayed less favourably if not mother of Elizabeth I._ And before she knew it, she was listing the outcomes of Henry's divorce, and how his daughter, Mary, had been declared a bastard, as her half-sister would later be.

…And speaking of bastards, royal or no…

Sierra clutched her pen so tightly she wouldn't have been surprised if it had snapped in half; her white teeth gritted in annoyance as she looked down at the page, cheeks blushing furiously: She had been losing herself in the world of royal love affairs, and the stigma of bastardy, its legal and social implications, and had been most distracted when her subconscious had thought it would be decidedly amusing to manipulate her fingers into scrawling a certain name on the page.

"I'm having a bath," she declared aloud to no one in particular, and after a long therapeutic soak re-entered the room in a dressing gown, towelling her hair, serenity shining through every carefully exfoliated pore.

The tranquillity was quickly shattered when, upon innocently passing her desk, her blue eyes happened to chance upon _the name_, causing her to drop her towel in shock.

_Sierra Verne_ was engraved on the crisp white paper for all the world to see.

* * *

"I don't know why you hate him so much," Angie was frowning on Saturday morning; despite her better judgement, and completely against everything Georgie had advised, Sierra had invited the lower-middleclass cousin to her home—and into her room, much to Georgiana's horror—to help her pick out a conservative, unattractive, Steve-repellent ensemble, and if Sierra had ever cursed her impeccable sense of style, it was then. 

"Well, he—he _stole_ from me," she sputtered in reply, pulling out a pink turtleneck and holding it up for Angie's inspection. "What do you think; too innocent, too girly, too cute?" she asked hopefully.

"He likes innocent and girly and cute," Angie noted. "It calls to the corruptor within him; the combined promise of the potential loss of innocence and defloration of virginity would be irresistible; trust me on that one."

"But it's a _turtleneck!_" she argued.

"It's a nice turtleneck."

"It's Hello Kitty!"

"Exactly: any female adolescent sporting a Hello Kitty good is subliminally saying, 'Here I am boys, come and shag me.'"

Sierra looked vaguely disturbed at this revelation, and so would you; like many, she had always assumed that sporting such an uncompromisingly sweet, childish brand would be the surest way to repel earnest suitors. Apparently not.

"But-But-But—But I've had it since I was _twelve_," she insisted, aghast at the vaguely paedophiliac undertones that made up the adolescent male's sexual psyche.

"Oh sweetheart, you're just asking for it now," Angie sighed sagely, and Sierra scowled before tossing the top onto the pile of other rejected clothing, looking at her watch. "Half nine," she said aloud before wincing in embarrassment.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry, where are my manners? Have you eaten yet? I know it's quite a long way—"

"It's alright, I'm an early riser; I was up at six this morning, looking over some coursework," she waved away.

"Are you sure? Look, it really is no trouble for Liv; she lives for impressing our guests with culinary delights."

"Sierra, really, I'm fine, thank you," Angie smiled, brushing back her dark hair. "It's nice enough that you invited me round; I don't want to intrude…"

"Come down with me anyway," she insisted, pulling at the older girl's arm.

It was only within the semi-privacy of the kitchen, in which Liv had gathered together a miscellany of fresh fruits for the girls' consumption (Sierra was nibbling delicately at a slice of melon) did the topic of conversation actually return to Steve.

"If he hadn't had stolen from you," Angie asked curiously, "would you still hate him?"

Sierra hesitated for a second. "I don't really socialise with… people like him," she carefully glossed over, knowing full well that the two were friends. _Or you, for that matter._ "Truth be told, I don't know whether I would or not. I certainly hope I do, though."

"Why?" Angie questioned, plucking at a few grapes before popping one into her mouth. "Hatred is such an ugly emotion."

"Well, yes, but…" Sierra struggled; how could she explain it to Angie? How could she say that, with the exception of height and probably body weight (she'd caught a glimpse of a toned abdomen during Angie's party when she was looking at a place where she most certainly wasn't supposed to be looking), Steve—and Angie, for that matter—were inferior to her in every way?

"I don't think I'd like to trust him," she began carefully. "As a matter of fact, I'm certain I won't be able to."

"But you do find him attractive."

"Well…"

"Oh, don't lie to me," Angie scoffed, moving onto a banana. "I'm a lesbian, and _I'd_ do him in a heartbeat. So would my girlfriend, actually; he appeals to lesbians, for some reason…"

Sierra lowered her eyes and busied herself with the melon, scraping diligently away with a spoon.

"I suppose," she began cautiously, hoping not to sound too clichéd, "I suppose, really, that he has that sort of… bad boy appeal."

"Oh, most definitely," Angie agreed, nodding fervently, her fingers tracing the banana in an absentminded way that made Sierra's cheeks burn. "You feel like you're a part of _Rebel Without a Coat_ or something with him."

The younger girl blinked. "Beg pardon?" and Angie grinned, unpeeling the yellow fruit.

"It's this thing that he does, if he has a date and wakes to find it cold or windy—or, preferably, raining," she explained, taking a bite of the banana. "If you're meeting outside, or he's picking you up, he'll show up, _sans manteau_, and you either end up sharing yours and snuggling comfortably under a bus shelter, or—and this is the killer—you _invite him into your house._"

"Ah."

"And it always works; in the bus shelter scenario, he'll whisper into your ear and breathe against your skin and a thousand other tiny little things that convinces you that exchanging body heat would be a very good idea—only to protect yourselves from the weather and the consequential cold, of course—"

"Of course."

"And if he's in your house—Well, it's pretty obvious; if it's raining he'll change, have a warm shower, and somehow or other you end up in there with him. If the weather's decidedly kinder—well, he'll find an excuse to take his clothes off and have a shower anyway. His standard of hygiene is so acceptable that if it wasn't for all of these girls, you'll suspect he was gay."

"And if there are people _in_ the house?" the blue-eyed girl challenged. "I mean, like _parents_?"

Angie merely shrugged.

"The man's a miracle worker," she said, returning to devouring the banana. "And do you know what? This coat thing actually works—which was why I brought this," and she held out the black material, patting it fondly. "Oh, don't look so shocked; he gave me his key—he'd copied some notes for this Chemistry lesson I'd missed, and told me I could pick them up this morning; and whilst there I found his coat as well," And she smiled knowingly at the girl, tapping the material fondly.

For a moment, the younger girl simply stared in disbelief at the garment before turning her gaze to the sky outside, her face turning from incredulous and disbelieving to outraged and discomfited.

"…You've tried it?" she asked at last, and Angie nodded, a devilish smirk on her face that made Sierra pull her dressing gown tightly over her chest. "This—This whole coat thing… He _told_ you about it?"

"Yeah; when I first came out; whilst everybody were nodding and smiling and either pretending to accept it or bemoaning the loss of potential grandchildren, Steve, who was my boyfriend, and who should've understandably been the most hurt and offended… Well, he just sort of… took me aside, looked into my eyes, and taught me a trick or two—Basically, he taught me how to pick up lesbians, which he's had an almost embarrassing amount of experience with," she finished flippantly. "He's great like that—which is why I honestly can't understand why you don't like him."

"He seems like a good _friend_," Sierra allowed. "But I think that, as a boyfriend—"

"I've known him as a boyfriend," Angie reminded her. "And he was a pretty decent one—not that great in bed, but that could just be me being averse to penises…"

Sierra's spoon clattered to the floor, and she ducked down under the table to fetch it, her cheeks glowing with embarrassment; it was alright to talk to Georgie or Frankie or Harry or indeed, any other of the wide-eyed, asinine girls who she considered friends or acquaintances about sex and anatomy, simply because Sierra had a habit of getting a little too scientific (it was no coincidence that biology was her best science by far) and repulsing or disgusting the girls as a result, because these girls were, after all, at that age where they were becoming aware of sex, but where the word penis still had the power to reduce them to a giggling caricature of their former selves for hours on end, and Sierra, despite her best efforts and falsified maturity, was still one of those girls, much as it pained her to admit it.

"Sorry," she apologised several minutes later, popping back up, hair in disarray. "Good boyfriend, you say?"

"Yeah," Angie confirmed. "But never mind, let's get back upstairs, shall we? We've a whole wardrobe of your clothes to sort through."

* * *

They left for Soho about twenty minutes to twelve, ensuring good time, and arrived at the Intrepid Fox at about ten past. At first, Sierra absolutely refused to enter, insisting that she wait the twenty remaining minutes outside; the exterior promised a cheap, dirty, dim interior of low standards of hygiene, not to mention low standards in general, and when she was finally pulled in, her judgement was proven correct, for it _was_ dark, and pretentious, and rather disgusting; the smell of fresh urine overwhelmed her olfactory senses, making her face wrinkle as she repressed a gag. 

"I'm not impressed," she said to her companion, looking in distrust at the few patrons scattered throughout, taking in their… _alternative_ appearance. Angie simply ignored her, marching right up to the bartender and speaking to him in low tones. The man, a pale, thin individual with a pierced septum, turned his gaze to the girl hovering tellingly close to the entrance, dark gaze sweeping critically over her body, upper lip curling in a sneer of blatant disapproval, much to Sierra's silent outrage, and after this silent inspection, he turned back to Angie to say, not troubling to keep his voice low,

"What a shame, that is; she doesn't seem like much to fuss over, does she? But I'll go get him anyway," and he turned his back at that very moment, thus unable to witness the look of offended outrage that stole across her face. Unable to lash out at anything or anyone, she crossed her arms and turned away, back to the slightly open door, a scowl on her face, starting slightly as she felt a hand on her shoulder, and that now-familiar drawl of, "To be perfectly honest, I didn't actually expect you to show up, much less twenty minutes early."

She gritted her teeth, shrugged his hand off, and spun to face him, unintentionally taking in his light jacket and faded jeans before raising her eyes to his smirking face.

"I've been informed that you asked for additional help in dressing yourself this morning," he told her lazily, not bothering to hide his sweeping gaze. She bit the inside of her cheek before thrusting his coat into his chest, using the action to disguise the fact that she was actually pushing him away.

"And I've been informed that you've forgotten this."

For a moment, Steve merely glanced down at his coat, lips pursing in confused thought before a sort of realisation dawned; he then raised his gaze to the promisingly grey sky, before turning to glare at Angie, who was standing some distance behind him.

"Thanks, darling," he stated somewhat bitingly. "How _considerate_ of you."

Angie shrugged, her face innocent.

"Hey, what are friends for?" she replied brightly, but then her expression sobered slightly as she asked, "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Steve turned back to look at Sierra, shrugged, and acquiesced, leaving the brunette to stand uncomfortably alone for several minutes more; when he did eventually return, there was a hint of a limp in his step, and, if she looked closely, a slightly reddened ear; Angie, in stark contrast, was as friendly and unruffled as ever, and after a brief walk followed by a teasing farewell, left the couple, claiming that she was off to see her girlfriend. Sierra smiled and gave her a brief hug, but the moment her eyes turned on Steve, her face became a mask of resentment, and she turned and marched steadily on, refusing to talk to him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked as he jogged alongside her.

"My purse, my necklace," she stated flatly.

"What about them?"

"I want them back."

"I'll give you the necklace now," he agreed, fishing into the pocket of his jeans, "But I—oh no…"

"What?"

"It appears I've forgotten to bring it," he told her contentedly, opening his hand to reveal an empty palm.

This didn't go down too well with Sierra, who immediately halted in her footsteps, glaring at him.

"You 'forgot?'"

"Well it was either that, or perhaps I just didn't want to rob myself of the guarantee of seeing you again," he admitted, backtracking a few paces to take her arm in his; she denied him the pleasure of contact, moving the limb out of his reach and quickening her pace ever so slightly so that she remained that way.

"Well, if you're going to continue playing such childish games, I may very well lose the incentive to continue seeing you."

"Are you saying you're _not_ completely averse to the idea of spending time with me, even if money wasn't involved?" he asked casually, and Sierra's eyes narrowed at the badly-hidden meaning of his words, which were either chosen with great care or greater carelessness; she halted altogether, and spun to face him.

"Firstly, I don't appreciate comparisons—subtle and unfounded though they may be—to prostitution; secondly, yes, you're right, if you hadn't had taken my belongings, I would not be with you right now; but that still does not give you the right—"

"Are you sure about that?" he interjected, and she blinked, confused. "That you wouldn't be with me, right now or, indeed, at any other time?"

"Well—I—Yes, of course I'm sure!" she snapped defensively, flushing under his intense gaze.

"I don't believe you."

"What?"

"I think you would be with me," he told her confidently, sidling ever closer, impervious to the stares of passers-by, "even if there wasn't actually anything… _material_… in it for you."

Sierra merely held his gaze for several moments longer before hurriedly looking away.

"You… are… very attractive," she confessed haltingly, staring at her feet. "And by God, do you know it. But you're also rather arrogant as well, and… that's traditionally a… a dislikeable quality—"

"Do _you_ find it dislikeable?" he murmured to her, and she became aware of the proximity of his presence at the same moment she felt his breath on her lips.

"…No…"

"Well there you are then," and he stepped away, and she found herself breathing normally again.

_Bloody hormones,_ she thought to herself, recalling that first night, and shook her head. He offered her his arm, and she unquestioningly accepted, and for several minutes, they walked on in silence.

"Why me?" she asked him suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"Well… All of this trouble you must have gone through, just to arrange this… _date_… Why? I mean, how did you know I'll be worth it?"

Steve lowered his head and laughed.

"I didn't know you'll be worth it—And to be fair, I still don't, but I'll tell you this, it is beginning to appear that you most certainly were—"

"You took my purse from me; that was where it all started, wasn't it?"

Steve merely raised his eyebrows.

"You… don't actually… go around robbing every girl you see, do you?" she said slowly in realisation, and they halted in their footsteps, waiting patiently for the traffic to freeze so that they might cross the road.

"Honestly? No, not really."

"I didn't think so. So why did you do it? It's not the most conventional way of asking a girl out."

"I'm a rather unconventional person, as I think you'll find. But to get back on topic: To be honest, I—Well, I just saw you, walking along that day, and you just—you just seemed so _interesting_—" She bit back a smile as she watched the usually silver-tongued Steve struggle with words before eventually giving up, laughing softly at his newfound ineptitude.

"I honestly don't know why, but I was overcome with the urge to get to know you better; perhaps we were lovers in a past life or something equally preposterous, I don't know. Or perhaps it's because you're so gorgeous that you actually stop traffic—" And he gestured theatrically at the recently halted vehicles, causing her to smile and laugh as they crossed the street, "But I saw you, and—"

"Decided to take my purse?" she filled in casually. "Why did you do that?"

Steve hesitated, and for the first time since she'd known him (brief though that may be), saw him as uncertain.

"…_Well_, I was hoping it'll contain contact details."

"Contact details?"

"Along the lines of a name and phone number."

"Oh; and then what?"

"Well, I'll call you and, posing as an almost-innocent bystander, calmly explain that I found this purse of yours after being knocked down by some inconsiderate git; we'd arrange a meeting, I'll flatter and charm you, we'll have sex, and happily part ways."

"You seem rather certain about the last three," she tenderly castigated.

"Of course I'm certain; with a slight variation of circumstances, it's practically what I do with every other lesbian I go out with."

"_What?_"

"Oh, what's wrong _now_?"

She stopped, staring at him, although she knew that the offence that she felt at his words… wasn't actually offence. It was odd; she felt the emotion, the righteous anger, and at the same time, she knew it wasn't real.

"I'm not a lesbian."

"Of course you are."

"I'm not."

"Are too."

"I _do_ have a boyfriend, you know—"

"Ah, yes; the infamous but as of yet nameless boyfriend, the regular and consistent mention of which greatly implies that you _are_ a lesbian."

Sierra stared at him for a moment longer before turning and going off in a huff.

"But you _must_ be a lesbian!" he insisted, quickening his pace to match her own affronted march.

"Give me three reasons that fully justifies your belief that I am indeed a lesbian," she challenged.

They came a little too easily to him for her liking.

"Firstly," he began, grabbing at her arm and missing, "you're on a date with me; secondly, you find me attractive—you _do_ find me attractive, right? Thought so—and finally—most _significantly_—" and his fingers wrapped around her elbow, rooting her to the spot, forcing her to look sullenly up at him.

"You're a _Catholic schoolgirl_."

For a moment, Sierra stood still, staring up at him incredulously.

"…Steve… _Steve_… Stephen," she began in a quiet voice, "I think you're old enough to realise that there is a _slight_ but _significant_ difference between _real life_ and badly-made lesbian porn, don't you?"

The boy merely blinked in bewilderment.

"What d'you mean?"

"…Not all Catholic schoolgirls are _gay_," she said slowly, as though this would help the boy absorb the fact better.

"…What?" he said at last, brown eyes widened in a mixture of childish confusion and horror.

"Quite a few Catholic schoolgirls are, I think you'd find, in fact heterosexual."

"Sierra, what the hell are you talking about? You're making absolutely no sense, you know," and the girl closed her eyes in exasperation.

"Alright," she began slowly, taking his arm in her own and forcing him to walk along with her. "Let's take this slowly, shall we? I'll ease you in gently—No, don't giggle, it wasn't meant like that and you know it—oh, _honestly_…

"First of all, not all of us where plaid skirts—as a matter of fact, ours—the upper school's, anyway—is just plain black; secondly, we _do not_ have a wide-ranging collection of bondage gear stashed under our desks—God is, after all, watching—thirdly, our teachers are not all beautiful, buxom, bespectacled blondes who strip and spank us whenever we get an answer wrong—that practice has, after all, been outlawed—"

"What about cheerleaders?" he interrupted suddenly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cheerleaders," he repeated, although his face seemed anxious. "Do they not spend all their free time lathering themselves and each other up in the shower?"

"…I don't know, I've never met a cheerleader before… But somehow I doubt it."

"And nurses," he continued, speaking as though every word cost him a great pain. "Do they really not spend all their days lounging around hospital beds attempting to discover every possible use for a miscellany of phallic—"

"Alright, that's enough," she snapped, pulling away from him. "This is just—I've had—_Nothing_ is worth—" She stopped at the look on his face, and sighed. "Not all Catholic schoolgirls are lesbians; therefore, that doesn't necessarily mean that _I'm_ a lesbian—which I'm _not_," she stated firmly, and he scowled.

"Alright, so you can have that Catholic schoolgirls one," he grudgingly conceded, "but that still leaves the other two reasons unaccounted for."

"Oh?"

"_Well_," he began smugly, "you're here on a _date_ with me, _and_ you find me attractive: so what, exactly, does that make _you_?"

"Straight," she deadpanned, although she couldn't help the smile that had broken across her face.

"Ah, so that's why you dislike me so much then," Steve finally accepted, slipping carefully out of her loose grip to take her hand in his own. "Heterosexual girls never really liked me, not in terms of romance, anyway."

"But how is that? Moreover, _why_ is that? You appear to get on very well with lesbians."

"Oh, I can charm lesbians alright; it's the straight ones that elude me."

Sierra shook her head, laughing quietly, and Steve grinned.

"Here we are; I take it you haven't had lunch yet?"

No, of course she hadn't; and even if she had, her answer would still have been much the same.

It was a lovely little café that he had led her to, comfortable and relaxing; she became most intrigued at his command to order something fast or pre-cooked, his reasoning being that he didn't want them to be late, but was unwilling to divulge any further information other than, "It starts at two-thirty."

"Tease," she threw at him, and he smiled, reaching over to pat her knee, his hand lingering for a moment before drawing back. Sierra looked around at the other clientele, then back at Steve, who was consulting his menu, before coming to a decision and moving her chair so that she sat beside him as opposed to opposite. Steve pretended not to notice this change, although he did smirk as she casually placed her hand on his thigh with the pretense of leaning over to glance at the appetisers, which for her was a very big step as it marked the first time she had ever really _flirted_ in her short life.

And she had proceeded to flirt outrageously (by her standards, or more specifically, the standards she had possessed at the time; in her adult life, 'outrageous' flirting had ceased to exist for her) although really, her flirting didn't go any further than lingering physical contact and a habit of leaning closer to him. Steve was obviously receptive, returning her light gestures with stronger, more certain touches; he had a habit of adjusting her hair, even when it was obvious to both that it didn't really need such amendments, and his fingers used this opportunity to gently trace (almost unintentionally, though they both knew this was untrue) her cheeks and lips.

All in all, she found herself enjoying… it, and enjoying his presence, and as time wore on, the idea of seeing him again, perhaps even on a regular basis, became more and more appealing.

When they left the café, he had his arm slung casually about her waist; but more significantly, she hadn't protested in the slightest, and besides this contact, the two had unconsciously agreed to alter the course of conversation and in doing so discover if they were compatible, not as lovers, but as _friends_.

"You're taking me to a theatre?" she later exclaimed, surprised as he steered them towards a building.

"Well, yeah; why, are you disappointed?"

"N-No… Just surprised, that's all."

"I appreciate theatre," he said defensively.

"I didn't say you didn't," she soothed, although she suspected he was only trying to impress her, which he had been doing both effortlessly and effectively so far. "What is it, anyway?"

The performance in question was a small, little-known comedy entitled _What Would Your Mother Say?_ that dealt with the everyday issues of love, sex, marriage, death, inheritance, matricide, patricide, fratricide, 'legalised incest,' foreigners, distant cousins, taxes, the civil servants forced to collect them, and a family of rather annoying badgers who had accidentally burrowed into the secret vault and had scattered the family treasure throughout the borough—and what was even more surprising was that it actually _worked_. Sierra had never known a time when she had laughed so hard—and it was as much due to Steve's witticisms as it was to the story acted out before them.

But the play had to end, and the afternoon's conclusion likewise was inevitable; all too soon, she found herself standing on the station, bidding him goodbye: Sierra was returning home; Steve was going to meet up with a few friends for a game of rugby, which, she was told, was a weekly ritual.

"It'll be dark soon," she told him whiningly, leaning into his shoulder, "Why don't you just call them and say you can't make it? We can get some coffee and curl up in a corner somewhere." She had almost invited him to her house, but stopped herself just in time.

"Tempting and more appealing as that undoubtedly is," he agreed, chin resting on her head, "it's what we do on a regular basis; if I don't turn up the teams will be uneven; I will then proceed to be ostracized, penalized, and generally disfavoured as a whole."

"…I'll have sex with you?" she tried as a final attempt.

"Liar," he laughed, placing a kiss atop her head, inhaling deeply.

"When can I next see you? Monday?" she pleaded, and he frowned.

"Can't; football practice, work; how 'bout Tuesday?"

"No, I have ballet then…" she began apologetically, and cursed as she heard the train pulling up.

"Time for you to go," he said regretfully, stroking her hair as he pulled back, only to lean forward once more—

She turned her head, and his kiss missed its mark.

"Sorry," she began, almost casually, "but I don't kiss on first dates; it's always fun to leave you males wanting more."

"Tease," he threw back at her, but accepted her decision almost unquestioningly (the fact that she did, in fact, reach up to give him a quick peck on the cheek may have also contributed to his complacency).

The moment Steve was out of sight, everything became a sort of blur; looking back, she was amazed that she had been able to remember to get off at the right station, and recall the correct route to her home, and was able to find her keys, and successfully throw off Olivia's prying clucking, and climb up the stairs to her room, and remember where her room _was_, for that matter, and a thousand other insignificant things which, in her contented, dreamlike state, seemed all the more difficult to perform.

Removing her coat reminded her of Angie's blasé but completely justified warning; pulling back her hair reminded her of Steve's touch, and the way he looked into her eyes, and his voice, and hundreds of other things that effectively drowned out her own inner logic as well as Angie's subtle counsel. Dazed, she walked to her desk, and began to sort through the various papers there, smiling as she came across Steve's three-line note—

Kim's giggle sounded suddenly in her ears; the accompanying image flashed before her eyes, and her bubble was effectively punctured.

_Good God…_ she thought to herself, both horrified and awed. And then:

_I have to be careful; Steve can charm any girl he comes across…_

_But I do so want to see him again; I know the risk, and yet it's not enough to stop me._

_Damned hormones._

The phone rang suddenly, and she started before leaning over to answer it.

"_Well?_" Georgie demanded, her voice betraying her impatience. "How did it go? Are you pregnant with his lovechild? Did he give you your stuff back?"

"Delightfully, certainly not, and no," she answered systematically, sitting down in her chair, her hand reaching up to finger with the chain of her necklace, as was her wont.

Wait a minute…

"Details, details, details," Georgie's voice echoed, oblivious to Sierra's frozen self. "What did you do? How did it begin? Did my cousin behave this morning? What did you wear? Was he—"

"Georgie, could you hang on for a moment? I need to check on something."

"Of course, go ahead."

Sierra put the phone carefully down on the desk and walked slowly towards her mirror, studying her reflected face intently before lowering her gaze to inspect the necklace. Sure enough, it was the same simple pendant that Steve had taken, when he had been pretending to be drunk…

Feeling hesitant yet oddly hopeful and apprehensive, she moved to where her coat lay, going through her pockets; the first revealed a handful of coins and some five-pound notes, change from her numerous transactions during the day; the second, on the other hand contained…

_Oh, Steve…_ she thought affectionately, opening her purse and checking that her debit card was in there and intact.

It was, but that didn't stop the piece of paper from fluttering to the ground.

_Really had fun today; call me, won't you?_

* * *

"Aw, that's so sweet," Janelle was saying, and Sierra wondered whether she was referring to her story, or the sight of Johnnie playing with his new pet. She decided it was the latter, and turned just in time to see the terrier leap up to lick his new owner's face, yapping happily. 

"Told you the puppy would make a worthy Christmas gift," she said smugly, taking a sip of her coffee; and indeed, the boy and dog had formed a remarkably close bond within the last three days.

"Yes, but _you_ won't have to clean up after it."

"He's housetrained!"

Janelle shot her friend a doubtful look, returning her gaze to the puppy doubtfully. Deciding to give the Briton the benefit of the doubt, she glanced up at Sierra from out of the corner of her eye, taking in her friend's fresh, wide-eyed expression, and the slight yawn. That grin hadn't had left the woman's lips all morning, and frankly, it was beginning to irk her.

"Who were you talking to last night?"

"No one."

"Steve?"

"A little bit. Why?"

"No reason," Janelle backed off, turning away and watching Johnnie to cover up the fact that she was smirking; _Just friends, indeed._ That being said, it was nice to have Sierra smile, truly smile, instead of that false upturning of the lips and lingering sadness in her eyes that had for the past four years passed as smiles. Jack Sparrow's fault, of course; before she met him, Sierra had been carefree, if not exactly happy.

_But he did have a positive effect on her, though,_ she thought to herself, laughing as Johnnie was bowled over by the as of yet nameless puppy. The way the redhead saw it, there had only really been two men in Sierra's life; one had caused her great pain (or so she assumed), but was now steadily making amends; the other had hurt her, but he had also brought her great happiness, and if she had cried because of him, it was only because he had been torn away from her.

Not to mention he helped her to become a far better woman than the spoilt, vain, selfish girl Janelle had met and promptly hated six years ago; the first Sierra Janelle had known would never have even remembered a passing comment Johnnie had made seven months ago, about how his friend had just been given a puppy and how he had gone around and played with it and now wanted one too, much less act upon it. The first Sierra would have gone after Janelle's boyfriend regardless of her friend's feelings instead of denying her lust and restraining herself to friendly, decidedly platonic conversation. The first Sierra wouldn't have needed alcohol to sneer at and insult Janelle's various guests on Christmas Eve.

T o be frank, the first Sierra was a bitch, and Jack Sparrow had changed that, for which the modern world was grateful; and although she had never met him, Janelle had felt a sort of profound respect for him, which would explain why she turned to her friend and said…

"Are you going to pick up on your writing again?"

"What?"

"You know," Janelle persisted, "about Jack. I know that originally, you were only writing about him as some sort of therapy, to help you get over him, and now that you've gotten back with Steve—"

"We're—"

"—just friends, yes, I know; anyway, it seems as if you're starting to get over him—congratulations, it only took you four years—but—Do you think you could continue anyway?"

Sierra merely blinked. "Why should I? I'm not planning on publishing it; I've got other work coming in now."

"Because—" Janelle began, and then stopped. She didn't want to say _Because you owe it to him_. "Because I'm dying to find out what—"

"You already know what happens."

"Dear Sierra, you didn't let me finish; I was going to say that I was dying to find out what sort of spin you'd put on it."

Sierra stiffened, and turned to glare at her, setting her coffee down carefully.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, you know," Janelle shrugged. "I mean, I can't vouch for what happened for the majority of the story, but I know the beginning wasn't quite like that."

"…Sorry?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong," Janelle hurried to assure her. "I'm just saying that the beginning, when you were describing your family, yourself, whilst as shallow, two-dimensional, and melodramatic as it was written…"

"…_Yes?_"

"Well, you weren't _that_ much of a victim. That scene where your father disowned you, for example; you actually said a lot worse to him, didn't you?"

Sierra wriggled and reached for her cup. "I'm trying to keep it somewhat clean," she said softly. "you can't blame me for that… Perhaps you noticed that I didn't include… with Pearl's rape… the medical attention that I…" Her hand was shaking, and she set the cup back down, curling up on the sofa with her arms wrapped tightly about herself, breathing deeply. When she spoke, her voice was a cracked whisper.

"There are some things which are best omitted, Janelle. For my sake, if nothing else. Things may be inconsistent, sometimes people aren't portrayed as they should be… But Janelle, when I was with Jack, I honestly didn't know what was going on. Nobody enlightened me; half of the things that Jack did… The places we visited… I never asked for an explanation; was never offered an explanation… And as such, I can't give an explanation for everything that happened."

"But it doesn't mean you have to lie about the things you _do_ know about," Janelle gently chided.

"I don't lie, Janelle, at least, not deliberately. But I am biased; of course I am. If that means I lie, then so be it. And why do you care so much, anyway?" she asked suddenly, and the woman shrugged.

"It brings the quality down a bit, that's all; sometimes it's as if you're not writing your best."

"Well, does it really matter? It's only for 'fun' anyway; and besides," she added, her voice suddenly playful, "it's not as if you take the emails I send you, edit them a little, and upload them to one of those story archiving websites, is it?"

Janelle smiled, said, "Of course not," and proceeded to avert her gaze and wriggle uncomfortably for quite some time; Sierra, miraculously, didn't notice, her eyes following Johnnie intently.

"That puppy positively _adores_ him, doesn't he? Looks like Johnnie will be preoccupied for quite some time; tell you what," she said suddenly, straightening and looking earnestly into her friend's eyes, "I brought a notepad with me; why don't I go upstairs and write for a bit? Will that satisfy you?"

_Only if you type it up,_ she thought darkly. "Go on; I'll send Johnnie up when it's lunch."

"Thanks," she acknowledged, and stood, pausing and turning back to look at her curiously.

"Janelle… I meant to ask you; a few days ago, Johnnie and the twins went in search of Christmas presents in your room; Adam went into your closet, and found… A very interesting mirror."

The American raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes; an explanation, please?"

"It's a family heirloom," the redhead shrugged. "A sort of reflective Ouija board; apparently, you're able to summon up, talk to, and see the dead with it. It's also supposed to reveal a person for what they really are, as well. A load of bull, basically; I mean, you just have to look at the ritual…" She stood, walked over to a cupboard, and rummaged through a drawer, pulling out some faded, yellowing, delicate paper encased in transparent plastic and handed it to Sierra, who had followed her. "See what I mean?"

Curious, Sierra took it, and read aloud, "'_First, thou must prove thyself worthy of the most sacred gift of necromancy by—Not now, Jack, I'm writing a spell—stripping naked and walking through fire clad in nothing but the pure milk of the dancing coconuts, and—no, really, Jack, I'm busy—No, I won't strip naked right now—stop distracting me… You are distracting me; to such an extent that I'm writing what I say to you as I say it… It is not funny! Stop laughing!_' …Oh my God," she breathed, looking at the page in something akin to shock before running her gaze over Janelle.

"…This is Teresa," she said weakly, holding up the page. "This is definitely Teresa."

Janelle nodded, returning her gaze evenly.

"There was a reason that I believed your story, Sierra."

"Because Teresa was your ancestor?"

"Yes."

"But you're white," she blurted out tactlessly, and Janelle shrugged.

"It's not unheard of for a white person to have black ancestors; it _is_ scientifically possible, you know. Look it up if you're interested."

"…I'll take your word for it," she said, still staring at Janelle's creamy skin in shock. The 'instructions' still dangling in her hand, she turned and moved to the hall as though in a daze.

"Oh, and Sierra?" Janelle called. "Tell the truth this time, will you?"

She smiled a little, although it didn't quite reach her eyes. "To the best of my ability," she promised, and exited, climbing up the stairs and into her room. Once there, she gently closed the door and leant back, standing very still, her heart beating frantically.

_If any of this actually works…_ she thought wildly, her pulse thundering in her ears. Unable to complete the sentence, she glanced at the desk, where her notebook sat innocently, plain pages begging to be filled.

_My novel,_ she thought slowly, _is all I have of Jack; writing and reliving those memories is the closest I can get to being with him again: But if this actually works…_

With a final glance at the yellowed page in its glistening casing, she straightened and marched to the desk, dropping it beside the notepad as she sat.

_Foolish,_ she thought angrily, _You've travelled back in time once, and where has it gotten you? What have you become? What do you believe in?_

_Anything. Anything that will give me hope._

_No, no, no,_ she cursed herself, turning the aged paper over and opening the pad to a clean page. It was stupid, it was foolish, irrational, impossible: People can't talk to the dead, certainly not through a looking glass.

So she picked up her pen, pushed back her hair, and glanced disdainfully at the large mirror presiding over her dresser—

And stopped.

The pen dropped, clattering to the floor, and her jaw fell as she stared. Then she closed her eyes, shook her head, and opened them again, smiling shakily at her own reflection.

It was just the trick of the light, or wishful thinking, or perhaps there was something in that coffee Janelle had neglected to mention, but there was no way in hell that she had seen Jack's warm brown eyes and curiously tilted head. Her mind was playing games with her; she was only seeing what she wanted to see, that was it.

_Janelle was so wrong; I'm not over Jack. Not in the slightest. Even if I do have Steve again._

_I need to get back to writing,_ she thought to herself, and closed her eyes, smiling gently as she remembered one of Jack's affectionate embraces; the ones he always bestowed just before he was about to inform or ask her of something she might have disagreed with.

And as she did so, she could have sworn that, if only for a moment, he was there in the room with her, his breath whispering gently against her cheek.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Hmm, the plot thickens… Reviews are, as always, appreciated.


	9. Bonding

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Eight:** Bonding_

Shopping with Flavio was, unsurprisingly, nothing like the shopping that I was used to; the two of us were able to locate a dressmaker's, a small but successful business run by a middle-aged couple assisted by various maids and spinsters, the premises hovering longingly close to the bustling marketplace. Flavio explained, in his newfound French accent, that his mistress was " a great French lady," and that she was also the niece of the governor's wife, who was "a greater French lady." The husband had exchanged a glance with his wife, eyes sweeping over my adopted aunt's simple day gown of simple calico in polite contempt, and then he turned back to his wife and said to her,

"How shameful! I haven't seen that pattern used in eleven years! Lady Hale should be ashamed of herself, allowing her niece to wander in such despicable attire. Mademoiselle," he turned to me, a smile on his face, and gestured that I follow his wife. With a nervous glance at Flavio, I obeyed, and soon found myself in a darkened room near the back of the shop. Mrs. Houghton politely asked me to strip to my shift, which I did, and then spent several minutes taking my measurements with careful precision. When I was dressed, she led me back to the front, where Flavio and Mr. Houghton were heatedly debating the various qualities of different stitches, clearing her throat and placing a hand on her spouse's shoulder.

"The fabrics, darling."

With a final lingering glare at the fuming Flavio, Houghton left the counter, going to gather various rolls of brightly-coloured cloths and unravelling them for my inspection.

"I like this," I said in a false accent, my fingers tracing a blue silk with a brocade of ivory flowers. "And this," to a jade green with a hand painted pattern of vines and leaves. Pastel colours were apparently very fashionable, as were floral designs; with this in mind, I chose a soft linen in a gentle shade of blushing rose, a soothing, 'watermarked' lilac, a plain sky blue. Feeling dramatic, my hand also grazed over cloths of striking scarlet and deep gold, fingers lingering on a virginal cotton.

"They are all so, so beautiful…" I sighed, and the Houghtons proceeded to look very pleased; Flavio merely scowled and asked if there was any fuchsia anywhere; Mr. Houghton denied this with great pleasure.

"Only the finest," Mrs. Houghton told me eagerly, her hand catching my wrist as she pulled me forward. She was a proud, maternal sort of woman; short, plump, with a kind, beautiful face and laughing eyes. I had liked her immediately. "We've all manners of silks, mademoiselle, from all parts of the world; China, Venice, Paris (you'll be pleased to know), Spitalfields…"

"Spitalfields?" I asked, and she smiled.

"London; oh, don't look so worried," she assured me, mistaking my surprise for shock, "Spitalfields is a haven of French Huguenots…"

"I am sorry," I said to her slowly, and she shook her head. "I just thought… _avec la soie chinoise_… why _London_?" I was hoping that mixing French and English up every now and again would add realism to my role.

"Well I'll have you know," she rebuked teasingly, "that us English are capable of producing very fine fabrics, mademoiselle; silk, lawn, linen, cotton, lace… 'Course," she admitted, her fingers adjusting a folded silk of pale yellow sparsely decorated with the smallest flowers imaginable, "no matter how beautiful a cloth is, it's not fashionable unless it's imported from the farthest reaches of the world, is it? That's the beauty of the Caribbean," she continued with a fond glance back at her long-suffering husband, whose dressmaking abilities were now being undermined by Flavio. "Here, English cloths are just as fashionable as French, or Italian, or Chinese…"

"It must be… ah… very dear a fortune to… to bring into Kingston such goods," I said to her sympathetically, hoping my linguistic inconsistencies weren't over the top.

"_Très cher,_" Mrs. Houghton agreed. "But Mister Houghton, he is a born barterer; you'll never meet a better, nor more persistent haggler than he."

I thought of Jack, but kept my mouth shut, a smile tugging at my lips as I wondered what his reaction would be if he found out that I had been reminded of him by a dressmaker.

"You are law-obedient citizens then," I continued innocently. "You do not… snuggle?"

"It's _smuggle_, mademoiselle," Mrs. Houghton corrected kindly. "And no, of course not; my husband is above _smuggling_."

Mr. Houghton suddenly whimpered, and the two of us turned to see him with his head on the table, ears covered, whilst Flavio merely blinked and looked sideways at him.

"_Madame,_" he said to me in a stage whisper, "_perhaps it is best that we leave now; these people are _strange."

"Hmm," I said, reaching into my reticule and pulling out a folded slip of paper; it was an officiated note Flavio had convinced Paul to give to me, stamped with the family seal; 'a promise to pay.' I had several of these written out for me, on the understanding that his father, my brother, and eventually, either my parents or future husband, would recompense him for his financial kindness. Mrs. Houghton and I talked for several minutes more; she pointed me to a perfumer, a milliner, a glover, a jeweller and a shoemaker, and promised that as soon as they were done, either she or her husband would call at my home to present me with the preliminary sketches. I smiled, thanked her, and followed my maid out of the door; as I stepped over the threshold, I heard Mrs. Houghton remark to her husband, "What a charming creature!" Mr. Houghton then proceeded to curse the day Flavio had been born.

Flavio hopped excitedly into the carriage, whining that I join him. I smiled, laughing, and was about to enter, when something stopped me in my tracks. In the distance, deep in the busy crowds of the marketplace, I thought I saw a dark-haired girl accompanied by a dirtier boy surreptitiously picking apples off of a stall.

"Sedano!" Flavio whinged at me, ignorant of the look the footman shot him at this, and stamped his foot petulantly. I was silent, watching as Pearl and her little friend start at a yell from the stall's vendor. Clutching tightly to their ill-gained food, they turned and ran in the opposite direction, disappearing completely. It all happened so fast that it actually took me a moment to register the vendor's cry of "Catch that boy!" and then I realised that it had all been an illusion.

"…I'm going to cry now," Flavio sniffled as I shook my head; my hand trembling, I clutched tightly to the footman's fingers, and climbed to sit beside my maid, looking silently out of the window.

We visited the glover first, and I commissioned genteel evening gloves in glowing ivory, a thick pair of leather in the case of possible equestrianism, and a pair of delicate fingerless mittens in lace-trimmed white lawn. The glover was a tall, lean gentleman with a delicately powdered periwig and expressionless grey eyes, and I did not feel immediately at ease with him as I had with the Houghtons. Like his dressmaking counterparts, he promised to deliver the accessories personally once they were done, although he inspected Paul's note with more suspicion than they had.

The perfumer was second, a flamboyant Italian who squealed in delight at the arrival of Flavio, hugging and caressing his 'friend' with great affection. Flavio's response was to whimper and cower behind me; he got slapped for such rudeness, and then we began discussing fragrances. It seemed that there were perfumes for everything I could desire; gloves, hats, handkerchiefs, wigs… and of course, least importantly, people. I chose a lingering citrus scent for Flavio, whose nose was almost endearingly attracted to the fruity smell, and a floral scent of rose and subtle jasmine for myself. Sebastiano was willing to waive the fee on account of the fact that I was a friend of Flavio's, but my maid insisted that we pay it. As he carried the delicate bottles away, I saw him turn to give the perfumer a lingering look. He was oddly silent for the rest of our trip, sighing like a lovelorn schoolgirl, perking up only when I bought him a sturdy straw bonnet from the milliner, the third trader we visited. The two sisters were rather friendly, although they did treat us with great formality, and when we left for the shoemaker's, we had a grand total of fifteen different hats literally between us.

The shoemaker was a sadist, or so I thought; Flavio had disagreed with me, saying that it was normal, _fashionable_ even, to wear shoes several inches too small, thus giving the appearance of tiny, delicate feet. Thank God the Europeans weren't followers of the Chinese trend of foot binding, or I would _really_ have stood out. But no matter; the point was that I was limping afterwards, and had sharply instructed the shoemaker to create shoes that were the _same_ size as my feet, and had informed him of the dressmaker; it was normal to have shoes that matched dresses completely, down to the fabric used, or so Flavio said.

The jeweller we visited last, in the afternoon, when the sun was still high, and the streets had cleared slightly because of the overpowering heat. It was a small, dark little building, and we had discovered that it was locked, bolted tightly shut. Flavio studied the door intently, peering carefully through the small, barred window, whilst I kept myself cool with a fan I had purchased from the milliner.

"I don't really _need_ jewellery, Flavio," I said to him tiredly, blowing a brown curl out of my face as I spoke. Come to think of it, I didn't need nine hats, five perfumes, and three gloves either, but…

"Nonsense!" Flavio exclaimed, rounding on me, a finger pointing threateningly at my nose. "All great French ladies need jewels! They are the very epitome of feminine beauty, breeding, and wealth! A diamond can say a thousand things; a word, three or four at the most."

We were eventually granted entry by an unctuous, stooping fellow with darting black eyes; I disliked him immediately, and stepped closer to Flavio, whispering in French that we wouldn't be staying here long. Flavio's eyes had fallen upon a diamond tiara, and he effectively ignored me, darting forward to paw at it through the glass top; the sides were fashioned from wood.

_Silly little maid,_ I thought fondly, following to make certain that he didn't break through the glass. The greasy gentleman followed us, and there was something in his eyes that made me swallow nervously, grabbing onto Flavio's arm for reassurance.

"And how may I be of service, Miss…?"

"Mademoiselle," I corrected forcefully, my accent wavering annoyingly. "Mademoiselle d'Évignon, s'il vous plaît." The sound of shattering glass could be heard from behind the counter, and Flavio started, leaping back with his hands clasped firmly behind his back.

"My apologies," the jeweller (I assumed) replied in a voice that was almost monotonous. "That would be the cat. If you would be so gracious as to excuse me…"

He walked, sort of _drifted_, really, towards the curtain, pulling it aside. I noticed how his head would turn, eyes darting between the two of us, before returning to look at whoever was beyond the curtain. Flavio didn't notice—there were pink sapphires in the tiara—but I watched the owner with great intensity. Eventually, the man decided to pin back the curtain so that he could simultaneously talk to his unseen acquaintance _and_ keep an eye on his new customers. My heart leapt as the swish of the curtain revealed—momentarily—a pair of familiar brown boots, one crossed over the other in what appeared to be a relaxed pose. I averted my eyes and busied myself with looking at a pendant.

"Flavio," I murmured quietly, studying the diamonds intently. "Why are there so many… 'fashionable' shops here? Kingston isn't Paris."

Flavio made a throaty noise I can't really describe, and looked at me disbelievingly.

"Which part of society do you think the governor is from?" he asked of me disbelievingly. "And the merchants, and the plantation owners, and the higher-ranking officers?"

He had effectively punctured my attempts at conversation; I thought I heard suppressed whispering, footsteps, rustling of clothes…

My eyes snapped up of their own accord; the boots were gone, but now I was aware of the fractured shards of a shattered vase… There was a part of a chest of drawers behind the broken china, from which the vase must have fallen from; on it, where the container must have once stood, I thought I could see a weather-beaten tricorne, faded brown leather.

A sudden feeling of light-headedness overcame me, and I clung to Flavio's arm once more, this time for support, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it.

When I looked back at the curtain, the hat was gone; that, coupled with my unexpected dizziness—not to mention I had thought I'd seen Pearl earlier that day—made me certain that I was hallucinating.

"What's wrong?" Flavio questioned me, eyes wide. "Is Sedano dying?"

He sounded almost hopeful; I glared at him, and he looked away, eyes falling on the jeweller, who, during my abrupt vertigo, had reappeared, and was looking at me with impersonal concern.

"Mademoiselle?"

"I'm sorry," I replied, just as politely, shaking my head, the French having all but disappeared from my voice, "I felt faint…"

The man nodded, but didn't say anything in response; instead, he walked towards us, studying his collection intently, as though we may have pocketed something in the minute or so he had been away. He asked me the usual questions; was I looking for something in particular, did I have a particular preference…

"Silver," I was able to reply, detachedly, and Flavio shot me a worried look. "I prefer silver… Or white gold." I didn't add platinum; I doubted he had any in stock.

After fifteen minutes, we left; I didn't want anything in particular, but Flavio had fallen in love with a pair of diamond earrings, and why not? At least one of us was enjoying ourselves.

"Do you not like shopping?" he asked me timidly as we sat in the carriage, returning to the governor's home.

"I do," I reassured him.

"You didn't like it today, though."

"Now what makes you say that?"

Flavio hesitated.

"You look sad," he murmured softly to me. "And it breaks my heart."

My head jerked up at this, and I shot him a look; his violet eyes held mine for a second or two, and then he turned away, gazing wordlessly out of the window.

Neither of us spoke to the other for the rest of the journey.

* * *

It was dusk when Flavio, in his quiet and submissive role of Jeanne-Louise-Françoise, as he had taken to addressing himself, knocked on my bedroom door to inform me that my brother had arrived, had been informed of my return, and had requested my presence at dinner that evening. Paul will, of course, be joining us, and though my stomach still twisted at the idea, the thought of a brother to watch over me calmed me immensely.

I wore a beautiful gown of deep red and subtle, purple-pink, trimmed with gold; one of the dresses Flavio had brought with him from the ship, but had been reluctant to give to me for fear of it splitting. I was, of course, insulted when he told me this, but with a few adjustments so that it'll accommodate my bust, which, I might needlessly add, was considerably larger than Flavio's, it fit snugly onto my body. My hair was of course curled, but considering how this was a private, almost-informal, family-oriented meal, I left it loose about my shoulders. I had no jewellery of my own, so I borrowed a golden necklace of flowers and leaves, and the accompanying earrings, from Lady Hale's abandoned collection whilst wondering how wise it truly was for the lady to leave her jewels in an unlocked drawer of her defenceless dresser.

The meal took place in the dining room, and was served at eight; I arrived as the grandfather clock chimed the hour to find Paul with his back towards me, studying a large family portrait that I assumed dated from the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, judging by the costumes worn by the participants. He turned to find me standing nervously behind him, and nodded that I enter fully; his hand beckoned me closer, and I obeyed, standing beside him. Flavio, as my lady's maid, was nowhere to be seen; I assumed he was taking his meal either in the kitchen or in my room.

"_Mother was given this on the day she left for England,_" he said to me in what he assumed was my native tongue, hand hovering decidedly close to my waist; I moved away under the pretext of examining those on the edge of the portrait; their clothing was well-made, but not as elegant or fine as those near the centre. I soon realised that the people on the edges were the distant, forgotten relations; nobility may have been in their blood, but there was clearly nothing in their bank balance.

"_Do you know what the purpose of this is?_" he said to me, his voice low as he stalked closer, like a lion towards a gazelle. I resisted the urge to lift my head from the grass and run.

"_Non,_" I answered.

"_It's to remind her of her family,_" he said, his voice now a whisper. "_To remind her of her true allegiance; to remind her of her blood. Everyone is dressed in the French fashion, don't you see?_"

"_Alors?_"

"_Ever since _your _mother married into the family, there's been a decidedly Italian vogue; however, _our _family was willing to transform themselves into undeniable patriots for this portrait; all of the fabrics, materials and patterns used in the clothing here are French._"

I jerked away at this, staring at him.

"_My mother is Italian?_"

"_Demi-italienne, oui; pourquoi?_"

I shook my head, and stepped carefully about him. So Nicolette's mother was half-Italian, like my own. Coincidence, surely.

"_Am I in this painting?_"

Paul reached out and pointed to a beautiful woman with fine black eyes and a regal smile; she was seated near the centre, a handsome man with brown hair standing beside her, a hand placed protectively on her bare shoulder. There was a young boy peeking mischievously out from behind her voluminous skirts; in her lap was a young girl, about a year old, possibly less, and already decked out in fine linen and lace. Her blue eyes were wide with innocence, and her face wasn't as detailed as the other, older members; I smiled as I imagined her looking around and wriggling. Her hair was black, like her mother's, peeking shyly out from beneath her white cap. This was Nicolette, and she looked so much like I would imagine Pearl would have looked at that age that I had, for a moment, lost my breath.

She didn't look like me though; at that age, I was blonde, and I had darkened with age, just like my uncle had done.

The boy looking over her head, I realised, was Christophe; his hair was brown, like his father's, though his eyes were identical to his sister's. As I looked at the rest of the family, it soon dawned upon me that the Évignons near the middle were not like their relatives; they remained grouped closely together, and excluding Nicolette, who looked simply bewildered, they all shared a pleasant, knowing smile. They were clearly the happiest of the models there; their body language, the way they had positioned themselves, spoke of domestic harmony.

Five minutes passed, and still Christophe had not appeared; Paul and I took our seats; maids and footmen alike brought in several covered dishes; a tall, hulking slave, black as night, poured me a glass of red wine; my stomach twisted as I realised he was the footman who had accompanied my carriage the night that I… Jack… and Pearl…

I accepted the drink with a cold nod; his eyes twinkled as he looked at me, no doubt amused that I was playing the role of prim aristocrat when he knew for a fact I was anything but. Taking a careful sip of the drink, I watched as he began to clear away an empty place—

When the door burst open, and in swaggered a tall, handsome gentleman with eyes I immediately recognised from the portrait.

"_Cousin,_" Paul greeted politely, rising to greet him; uncertain of protocol, I also rose. "_We thought you'd abandoned us._"

"_How presumptuous,_" Christophe responded, eyes locking on his cousin, as though he had not yet noticed me. "_I've left my family, my friends, I've resigned my commission, and all to find my darling sister; and now that I have succeeded, did you honestly believe that I would leave her in your company unchaperoned?_"

"_Forgive my presumptions, cousin,_" Paul replied smoothly, turning to face me and adding, "_But she's here now._"

Christope's smile remained in place, but his body seemed to tense at his cousin's words. Slowly, he turned, and his eyes… they seemed pained and desolate and hopeful and fearful all at once.

Seconds passed as we simply stared at one another; he was studying me intently, to ensure that I matched his own memory of Nicolette; I was simply studying him.

The simplest description I could think of to describe him was that he looked like me, more so than my own siblings did; if I had been born a man, chances are I'd have been born as Christophe. His hair was brown, the same dark shade as mine, straight, although there was a slight curl at the edges, and pulled away from his face with a blue ribbon, ending near his shoulders. His eyes greatly resembled mine, although there was a more upward tilt; his nose just as straight, his lips just as full, but his chin was stronger, well-defined, more masculine. His shoulders were broad; his waistcoat seemed to hang almost carelessly off of him, unbuttoned, revealing a white silk shirt, also unbuttoned; I caught a glimpse of muscle, perhaps not as well-defined as Jack's, but still… For an aristocrat…

To be perfectly honest, his swaggering confidence, coupled with the blatant nonchalance of his attire, the drips of water that escaped from his hair, reminded me uncompromisingly, almost disquietingly, of Jack; if Jack had been French, and had moved in aristocratic circles, that is. I found myself charmed immediately, and had to pretend that the blush that erupted was due to the humid heat of the Caribbean. Thankfully, in the glowing candlelight, my cheeks went by unnoticed, or so I hoped.

"_Belle,_" he said at last, walking towards me slowly, as though I were a fawn. "_Très belle… Oh, Nicolette…_" He was standing before me now, taking in my gown before his eyes lifted to my face, and I felt oddly faint. When he took me in his arms in a brotherly embrace… I don't think I'd ever been so affected by a hug before, and was surprised at the unconsciously seductive influence he had.

He was definitely me, had I been born a man.

Christophe had buried his face into my hair, and was clutching me tightly to him; and though I knew that it wasn't exactly for me, though I knew it was because he had mistaken me for Nicolette… I had never felt so loved, so wanted, in my entire life. Nicolette had been incredibly lucky.

When we eventually parted, Christophe was ever the gentleman; he escorted me to my seat and pulled out my chair, glancing at my red wine in brotherly concern.

"_You should really be drinking champagne, Nicolette,_" he said to me, half-admonishingly. "_Or white wine, at the most; red is far too strong._"

I quirked an eyebrow at him; he was handsome, but when a man attempted to mollycoddle me, he became less attractive in my eyes.

"_Would you prefer it if I were drinking rum?_" I asked sweetly. "_Or ale, or indeed any one of those disgusting 'masculine' concoctions?_"

I prayed to God that my portrayal of her was accurate; I honestly couldn't afford for him to become suspicious.

"_Nicolette…_" he said warningly, and I sighed, turning to a footman, although secretly I felt my stomach unclench in relief.

"_Champagne, please,_" I asked obediently, and saw him nod in approval. I then spent the rest of the meal attempting not to flirt with him; once or twice, I may have said something that caused him to look at me in confusion, but overall, I think I kept admirable control of myself.

…But I just couldn't help being reminded of Jack by him! I would have had far more incentive to remain sweet and submissive if he hadn't reminded me of that… _man_. To be sure, if I hadn't been looking, I would most certainly not have been able to discover any similarities between them, besides the fact that they were both Caucasian, dark-haired, and male. As it was, I was able to spot several similar traits; his wit, for example; a little more biting, more cutting, than Jack's playful humour, perhaps, but his insults were just as cunningly disguised. How his eyes would drift, indicating impending boredom.

…And there was a way in which he drank his own red wine, how he held it to his lips and sipped as he studied me… True, I'd only ever seen Jack use a tankard, but there was something in the way that _he_ had swallowed and stared that made men uncomfortable, and women embarrassed. With a fine goblet of glass and gold, it looked downright flirtatious; an item Christophe was using, that had me turn away and take a sip of my own champagne.

"_Are you well, Nicolette?_" he asked suddenly, interrupting Paul's droll chatter.

"_Très bien; why do you ask?_"

"_You seem quiet,_" he began lazily, "_and faint, and distracted… Your cheeks seem redder than before—although that could be to do with the wine—and you've barely touched your food._"

"And a good thing too," Paul muttered in English. "That bodice doesn't look like it'll hold much longer."

I wanted desperately to tell him that I wasn't fat, just busty, but let it slide, looking pointedly at Christophe.

"_Like I said, I'm very well, thank you. Don't coddle me._"

Christophe raised his eyebrows, surprised and hurt at my cold tone. I closed my eyes, and winced.

"_I'm sorry,_" I said softly. "_I don't know what came over me; perhaps I _am _feeling unwell…_" My voice was faint and wavering, but that was because I was suddenly scared; if Nicolette was submissive, as she apparently appears to be, what I'd just said must have been completely out of character. The rest of the dinner was a long, slow chore in which I took a slightly more active role in conversation, though silently I was squirming and wriggling inside. Christophe noticed my discomfort, and it was he that suggested that I go up to bed; relieved at the prospect of escape, I bade them both goodnight and exited, climbing up the stairs, a small smile on my lips.

Flavio was already stretched out on the mattress, reading a book by candlelight. He was still wearing his lady's maid's attire, a dress of blue-grey and a long white apron, although I could see his bodice was unbuttoned, and his hair was loose, falling about his shoulders in waves of gold. He looked so serene, so feminine, so _normal_, that I didn't really want to disturb him.

He saw me standing by the door, screamed, darted under the covers to preserve his modesty, and the spell was shattered. Smiling, I shook my head as I closed the door, and walked to where his wide violet eyes and golden hair peaked out from beneath the blanket, sitting beside him.

"Bonsoir, Jeanne-Louise."

Flavio whimpered, and disappeared completely. Slipping off my shoes, I followed, covering his mouth as he attempted to scream and giggling.

"How was your evening, hmm?"

Flavio shrugged, eyes wide with horror. I sighed, pulling my low bodice up and arranging my hair so that my bosom was mostly covered. He was considerably relaxed afterwards, telling me in pants that it was fine, that nothing significant had happened, that he hadn't fallen in love with the stable boy, and had proceeded to ramble on about a thousand other insignificant little things.

"_Et vous?_"

I shrugged, my face serious. "I think I've done rather well—for now," I said slowly, looking at him intently. "But I think that we're both going to have to be very careful from now on if we're going to actually pull this charade off."

Flavio nodded in understanding, and promised to be good. I smiled, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and we eventually resurfaced, slipping off of the mattress so that I might slip out of my gown and corset. I didn't use a changing screen this time; Flavio had forgotten to set it up, which was why, when I was changing from my shift to my nightdress, he dived under the covers once more, and stayed there until he was certain that I was done.

"I honestly wouldn't care if you saw me naked, Flavio," I sighed, climbing into bed next to him; Flavio made a strangled noise and leapt immediately out, busying himself with putting away my gown and corset and stockings and petticoats and shoes and jewellery. When he was done, he hurried away to fetch the changing screen, blowing out the candles behind it so that I couldn't even see his silhouette. I raised an eyebrow and shook my head, watched detachedly as first his apron, dress, petticoat and stockings were draped over it; he then shuffled slowly, uncertainly out, dressed in his shift, a nightshirt over it; I realised that his hands were trembling as he folded and put his own clothing to the side, ready for use the next morning.

"Why are you so restless?" I asked as he stood at the foot of the bed, wringing his hands nervously. "You've slept with me before."

"Well, _yes…_" Flavio began, uncomfortable, "but _then_ you were sick and ill and _unconscious_… And now you're not."

I sighed in irritation, recalling what that Flavio had attempted to tell me before, about Paul and pageboys and counts, but which I had, in my sickened and vaguely selfish state, showed no interest in hearing.

"I swear on my honour that I shan't take advantage of your vulnerability," I promised; he nodded and came to the bed, although I noticed he was trembling all the while.

I looked at his turned back sympathetically, reaching out to pat his arm; growing bolder, I drew closer to him, and gave him another kiss on the cheek.

"_Relax,_" I said to him encouragingly. "Other fully-healthy people may have taken advantage of you, but I won't, alright? I _promise_."

Flavio nodded, slipping out of my embrace to extinguish the lone candle beside him.

**-x!x-**


	10. In the Dark

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Nine:** In the Dark_

I found myself back in the meadow; that vivid, vibrant meadow of soft viridian grass and clear cerulean sky. My dress was still the simple white garment that I, as far as I could recall, had always worn, glowing ivory in the bright midday sun, and my feet, as always, were bare, the soft, dampened grass beneath pressing gently against my soles. Everything I knew, everything I remembered, was this calm, uncluttered meadow, and I felt at one, at ease with my surroundings, for I was not unlike this great expanse of never-ending green; simple, gentle and unchanging. Nothing sinister beneath surface, no deep secrets and desires and yearnings waiting to be realised, oh no; I was simple, I was calm, I was still, and, although rather pretty to look at, of no great interest; like the pure pasture stretched out before me, I was nothing more than what could be seen on the surface.

Not at all like… like a waterfall, or a river, or… or that other body of water, what was it…? That wide, wild expanse that smelt of salt, that was cobalt and sapphire and jade all at once, where monsters hunted beneath its surging, shifting surface; what was it?

I frowned, and halted my languorous strides, the smooth, untouched surface of my serenity rippling in the wake of the unwelcome, unknown touch of curiosity. I had always been here, living on this untouched land, and I had always been alone; I had never seen nor heard of this wide expanse of liquid that suddenly plagued my thoughts. As a matter of fact, this… _pool_… was everything that I despised, that I was against. It was unpredictable; it could lick at your fingers like a loyal pet one moment, but rear as violently as any errant stallion at another. It was vicious and spiteful and tempestuous, choosing its victims indiscriminately; drowning its lovers with as little remorse as it did its neglecters: _It_ was a _She_, and a surge of hatred rose within me as I slowly realised that she was the worst kind of woman. A man would be a fool to fall in love with her.

But what was her name? She had captured the hearts and souls of men throughout the ages, had been both damned and extolled, had been christened a thousand times over, and yet not one of her monikers would make itself known to me.

I closed my eyes tightly shut, my mind throbbing with the unfamiliar pangs of confusion; I breathed in deeply, recognising the subtle perfume of dew and lavender and wildflower and grass. With stubborn force, I returned my attention back to the calming simplicity of the meadow that was my home.

I didn't feel the need to question the purpose of this field, nor did I want to; in my calm, serene heart, wrapped in the welcoming blanket of content tranquillity, there were no stirrings of curiosity, no yearning for other worlds, other knowledge, other times. Curiosity breeds longing, and longing nurtures restlessness; in turn, restlessness births that which is the enemy of all harmony, discontent. Better to be content with what I knew than with what I did not.

And what did I know better than myself?

So I thought of myself, of my uncompromising simplicity; I thought of my russet hair and my white dress, and of how light and dark contrasted in me in a way that it did not in my surroundings.

And it was then that I realised I was missing my hat.

My eyes snapped open, hands reaching up to grasp my loose hair, but my head remained bare. Spinning on my heel, I looked wildly around, eyes sharpened for a discordant fleck of white, glowing like an errant beacon in the blinding field of green.

Instead, I saw something black; an ebony speck that had appeared on the horizon, where emerald and azure mingled in complementary harmony.

_Go away,_ I thought, irritated; I had lost my bonnet; the last thing I wanted, or needed, for that matter, was an annoying little bird.

But even so, the creature continued to grow, and as I sighed and crossed my arms in annoyance, I could see that it wasn't black at all, but rather brown, small, swift, delicate; and as light as the air that its small, outstretched wings so effortlessly grazed.

The bird seemed tired, beating its wings frantically, its twitters coming out in exaggerated gasps; soon it was before me, hovering an inch or so away from my nose, before the creature lost all strength and collapsed, dead, falling to rest in my bosom.

…I had a dead sparrow nesting between my breasts: _Surreal_ couldn't even begin to describe it.

As I stared, I felt his warm little body moving, pulsating with every breath, soft feathers tickling my skin; soon he had raised his head, looked up at me with his small beady eyes, stretched his wing out from my bodice in the direction from whence he came, and chirruped in irritation.

_Over there._

I blinked and stared at him in bemusement. Closing his black eyes briefly, the sparrow shook his head, flapping his small brown wings out indignantly.

_Go over there._

I simply stared at him further. Aggravated, the sparrow flew up to hover beside my ear, his wing brushing the lobe as he twittered excitedly into it.

_Walk in that direction, and take me with you, you silly little tart._

I narrowed my eyes at him, frowning as he flew back to curl up in my bodice, hiding his head under a wing. After a moment's silent debate, I gently prodded at his body, causing him to slowly lower his wing and look up at me inquisitively, head tilted to the side.

…_Yes?_

"Why don't you go on my shoulder?" I said, tapping it as I spoke. The bird's eyes darted briefly to glance at the curve of bare skin before shaking his head adamantly and diving further into my bodice in such a way that he would prove to be impossible to dislodge. I sighed and started in the suggested direction, uncomfortably aware that a sparrow was sleeping contentedly within my bosom. He was, without a doubt, the most perverted little bird I had ever met.

After fifteen or so minutes of indolent strolling, my eyes began to make out a white fleck, and I quickened my pace, looking approvingly down at the bird nestling happily against my skin.

"You pointed me to my hat, didn't you?"

I felt rather than saw the sparrow shift his little wings in what I assumed was the avian equivalent of a shrug, and smiled, shaking my head in amusement. Carefully, I reached down to gently scoop him out of my dress, which was a fairly difficult task, considering how he wriggled and attempted to burrow further into my chest, chirruping in panic when my fingers closed firmly around his little body, pinning his wings effectively to his sides.

His squirming began to increase, as though terrified of being caught in my loose fist, and I frowned at this; why would he be scared? I wasn't going to hurt him. It wasn't as if he was hurting me; despite all of his struggling and twittering and wriggling, not once had he used his sharp little beak against me.

Not once.

Soon enough, I had him out of and away from my chest, and slowly raising my other hand, cradled the bird gently between my fingers, stroking what parts of his brown feathers I could reach. It took several minutes, but soon his wriggling had slowed, growing weaker, and as I watched, he closed his eyes and lowered his head in what seemed to be resignation to his inescapable fate.

I pulled him closer and kissed him, my lips brushing gently against his head; this didn't seem to calm him in the slightest, which had been my intention, but rather, quite the opposite; his head reared back, beak tearing painfully against my lips, and I cried out, gasping as a scarlet spring sputtered forth, gushing as though it were a damn; I felt my grip loosening, his wings brushing against my fingers as he prepared himself for flight.

"Wait!" I pleaded even as my hands went to cover my lips, fingers failing to suppress the crimson river. _Don't leave me!_

To his credit, the sparrow hesitated, his body turning in midair so that he might face me; I thought I saw something—pity, sorrow, love?—well up in his black eyes as he stared down at me, trying to suppress the overwhelming flow of cerise spilling forth from my lips even as I pleaded silently with him.

_If you leave me, I'll die._

The sparrow slowly began to descend, only to halt suddenly, looking down at me once more.

_If I stay, I'll die._

My heart cracked as I watched him turn away, flying higher, higher, higher until he was just a speck disappearing into the welcoming embrace of the sun.

Broken, I looked down at myself, slowly realising that half of my dress—my plain, simple white dress, of which I had been so proud—was stained a deep rich burgundy.

_So much blood,_ I thought dazedly, my legs collapsing beneath me as I felt the spring continue to sputter forth. For some reason, having my fingers slick with sticky blood immediately after an encounter with the sparrow was not a new one, even though I was certain that I had never met the bird before today. _So much blood in me…_

And then I smiled, a wide, thin smile, a thought striking me as I looked down at my stained, darkening gown.

_Perhaps I'm not so plain after all._

* * *

Again, I awoke screaming; again, Flavio was kicked out of my bed; and again, my maid had to crawl back up to pacify me, wrapping his arms tightly about my shoulders and stroking my hair whilst gently reminding me that everybody was asleep.

"Am I bleeding?" I sobbed raggedly. "M-M—My lips, my dress—Am I bleeding? Fl-Flavio…"

"Shush…" he soothed, fingers stroking my cheek carefully. "Hush, little Sierra; don't you cry…"

"He wanted to hurt me…" I rambled, not at all relaxed. "I killed him, and now he wants to hurt me…"

"It was a dream; just a dream—"

"It _was not_ just a dream!" I shrieked suddenly, causing Flavio to instinctively cover my mouth in order to muffle the wail. Breathing deeply, I slowly pulled his hand away and, leaning closer, whispered furiously against his lips, my weeping eyes flashing, "It _was not_ just a dream Flavio; it can't have been. I've rarely had dreams before I came here, and when I did, they were _never like this_: never—_like_—this!"

Flavio looked at me, worry in his eyes; I felt his fingers brushing against my bare shoulder, and knew suddenly that my nightgown had fallen down, uncompromisingly baring my right breast for any and everyone to see.

_Jack would have loved that._

But I wasn't embarrassed in the slightest; I wasn't lying when I had told Flavio that I honestly wouldn't mind if he saw me naked, which had only been a few hours before. So, sniffling, I raised my head a little higher in defiance, silently daring him to contradict me, challenging him to… To what, I honestly didn't know.

Gently, I felt Flavio's fingers move lower, until he held the thin cotton in his careful, precise grasp, pulling the garment delicately up so as to conserve my modesty, or what was left of it. And then he slowly raised his gaze in measured control, and I felt my initial rage fade at the look that I saw there.

"It was just a dream," he murmured against my lips, his eyes black in the moonlight that streamed from the open door that led to my balcony. "A nightmare, nothing more. You _have_ been through quite a lot rather recently, and you've not yet fully… recovered. Sierra, it was just a dream."

"It _was not_ just a dream…" I repeated faintly, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears; I lowered my gaze, looking down at his lips, hovering so innocently, fascinatingly close to my own, and had to close my eyes as I looked away, even as I leant further into his loose embrace, my head falling to rest comfortably on his shoulder. "It _was not_ just a dream, Flavio…"

The more I said it, the stupider it sounded. Perhaps Flavio was right; perhaps my rich, vivid dreams of the uninhabited meadow and the little sparrow were simply my way of grieving over Pearl…

…Poor, sweet little Pearl, whose face continued to haunt me; her blue eyes, and how they widened with curiosity, or, indeed, any other overwhelming emotion; her rose-coloured lips parting, as though about to speak—or in her case, squeak. I smiled thinly at this, my eyes continuing to water.

_I miss her so much… Far more than I miss Jack… Because… Because… Because I actually…_

"I love her…" I finished my thought quietly aloud, my voice trembling from tiredness and the strain of holding back defiant tears. "I _loved_ her Flavio, an-and I love her still, even though I shouldn't; sh-sh-she was never _mine_ to love…"

There was only silence between us, and I would have been content for us to remain that way; I found Flavio's antics amusing enough by day, but at night, and at _this_ current time, I most certainly wasn't in the mood to indulge in his lunacy.

Thankfully, neither was Flavio.

"Love is a very curious thing," he murmured softly to me, his long fingers stroking my hair with intolerably comforting gentleness. He continued, in that low, soothing voice, devoid of any falsetto, "I like to think that it's like a small wild little animal that at first glance seems perfectly safe and sweet and utterly approachable, and yet it is anything but: Like an otter. Or a weasel. Or even a plague-ridden rat—"

Such wishful thinking: the clown had returned, and he had returned with a vengeance that was nothing short of inappropriate. A mild wave of irritation rippled through me; now _was not_ the time for a jester.

"_Flavio_…"

"_Sì…?_"

I hesitated, uncertain, uncomfortable; even slightly unwilling.

"Love is _not_ a plague-ridden rat," I said instead (and most pathetically, I shamefully admit).

Flavio simply gave me a sad, knowing smile in return, and I was suddenly struck silent by this unnatural oddity: his rare, hidden, insightful… wisdom. Wisdom garnered from experience. I then recalled the encounter with the flamboyant Italian perfumer the day before, and how Flavio had been oddly mute afterwards.

"Love is uncontrollable, Sierra—and we can't control the plague, now, can we? Of course not—And like the Black Death, love chooses its victims indiscriminately; sometimes it strikes at the people that you _shouldn't_ love at all—which, again, is a rather startling similarity to the plague, do you not agree?"

He punctuated his rambling, disjointed proclamation with a gentle kiss against my hair, his hands continuing to rub my back and shoulders, and I sighed, purring quietly at the sensation.

"But Pearl was certainly _not_ one of _them_," he said to me firmly. "Pearl was a small, sweet, bouncy little daughter of Satan, and she was very lovable as an explicably indirect result: You _should_ be grieving for her, and I fully intend to allow you to do so, in your own time; as a matter of fact, I've already ordered several embroidered handkerchiefs for the sole purpose of drying your eyes—but not for blowing your nose, though, no no no, certainly not for _that_; they are, after all, crafted from the finest Chinese silk."

I smiled at this, grateful for his attempts at lifting my spirits; and in a way, he had somewhat succeeded. Raising my head slightly, I shifted in his arms, and planted a kiss of gratitude on his soft skin; at that point where neck and shoulder met and merged.

Then suddenly, I felt myself blush.

"I… I know that," I sighed, burying my face into his shoulder and praying that he would attribute my heated cheeks to the humid climate and nothing more. "I know that these nightmares are due to Pearl's… her…" I cleared my throat, and tried again. "I _know_ that, Flavio, I really, _really_ do; But these nightmares… I mean, yes, I've only had two, but… Well, I rarely _dream_, and so… Oh, Flavio; they simply scare the hell out of me, and I don't know what to do about them. And—" I stopped abruptly.

_And I think I'm going insane. A madness born of irreparable grief._

Flavio's slightly callused fingers had resumed their stroking, tracing my shoulder blades, the curve of my spine, the back of my neck, clearly uncaring as to how or where he touched me. Such a contrast to Jack, whose own elegant digits would have found an excuse to caress my buttocks long ago; Flavio had honestly meant to comfort me, nothing more. How many men in the world were like that?

"You should rest," he was saying to me soothingly, lowering himself carefully onto the mattress and taking me with him. "You should fall asleep now, Sierra, and get some rest; you deserve rest. You're… You're very upset right now, you know."

I smiled again; I couldn't help it: his childishly verbal incompetence was really rather endearing.

"And so should you," I said to him in return. "The number of times I've woken you up by screaming, or kicking you out of bed…"

"Shush shush now, Sierra…" he repeated once more, adding suddenly, "Shall I sing you a lullaby?"

I closed my eyes at this, fighting down the urge to glare at him.

"No, thank you."

"Fine," he sniffled, offended. "It's your loss."

We laid in one another's arms for the rest of the night, his fingers stroking and caressing my shoulders in absent-minded tenderness, causing my skin to sigh in silent contentment. I must have fallen asleep, for when I awoke, my throat oddly parched, Flavio's head was thrown back onto the pillows, mouth hanging slightly open, a quiet snore escaping him. He must have been a heavy sleeper, for I found it oddly untroublesome to slip out of his arms—causing him to turn on his side, glowing hair shifting slightly in the moonlight as he sighed—and out of my bed.

Clumsily, my bare feet stumbled across the oddly cool floorboards, tripping over the outline of my clogs—or Flavio's. With forced care, I slowly traced the soft leather with my toes, mapping out its position, before slipping into the shoe and repeating the same careful process with my foot's twin. Yawning, my hands reached up to push back my dark hair, rubbing my eyes drowsily. Pulling my nightgown closer, I trotted unsteadily towards my desk, lighting an oil lantern with exaggerated care and, blinking in the sputtering light, moved unsteadily towards the sparsely-illuminated door.

Like any other false French aristocrat, I had every intention of sneaking down to the kitchen in search of a glass of water; I hadn't the heart to wake Flavio, or indeed any other member of the help. Perhaps whilst there, I'll help myself to an apple, some bread; the corset that I now wore with almost religious routine had effectively made swallowing large, filling meals impossible, simply because the design was such that it had closed about my ribs and stomach, preventing such servings from staying there long enough to be fully digested. I had learnt that whilst working in the Garter; Beth had slapped my fork out of my hand, telling me sharply that I'll make myself sick if I continued to eat more than the eight bites or so I had already consumed. Defiant, I had eaten what was left on my plate, more in protest than in hunger, and had experienced the consequences of such gluttonous obstinacy first-hand.

"_I told you not to eat any more, didn't I?" Beth had laughed gently, lifting the handkerchief out of the bowl of water and wiping at my gasping lips. "Don't just stand there looking disgusted, Pearl; help Sierra with her stays."_

"_But there's vomit all over—"_

"_It's in a bucket, Pearl; don't be so particular, it's really rather unbecoming."_

Late that night, Beth had pulled me down to the kitchen, where several other whores were waiting, raiding cupboards and experimenting with the fire; though some clients were generous enough to purchase their paid companions their meals along with their time, it was only after the last satisfied sailor's eyes had closed that the girls, bodices noticeably unlaced, could indulge their various appetites. Now that I had returned to primly-laced corsets and witty but deliberately credulous conversation between delicate, feminine bites, I supposed that it could almost be considered inevitable that I would also return to slaking my hunger under the cover of night.

I only half closed my door, allowing the moonlight to stream brightly into the black hall, thus illuminating the entrance, and, lantern held high, walked slowly to the stairs, my hand tracing the banister as I descended.

There really was no one awake; the large house was almost alarming in its stillness. Nervous, I silently wondered if there were any guards patrolling the perimeters. I certainly hoped so.

It took me about fifteen minutes, but I eventually stumbled upon the kitchen, a large square extravagantly decked out in beaten wood and glittering pans. Whilst looking around and silently cursing myself for my stupidity—on land water would, of course, be stored in a well somewhere as opposed to a festering barrel, and would be fetched only when necessary; and even if it wasn't, I'd not the slightest inkling of where to _begin_ looking for the much-coveted but frustratingly elusive liquid—a distinct aura of disquiet suddenly fell upon me, silencing my scornful berating as I found myself suddenly holding my breath.

Silence: Silence, heavy and oppressive, wrapping about me like a funeral shroud, smothering me in its black folds.

My hand began to tremble as with each passing second the unsettling sensation of being watched solidified, smugly reassured in its quiet menace. The creaking of the cicadas became oddly muted as my heart's thudding increased, both in volume and speed; the air, which I had long since grown accustomed to, suddenly became too hot, too humid, too oppressing: My breaths suddenly came too short, both hurried and shallow, and a feeling of undeniable light-headedness caused me to drop the lantern as I staggered, hands reaching out to rest on the rough surface of the table before me, mouth wide open as I gasped futilely for air whilst the lamp rolled carelessly slow below me, its candle sputtering.

But I didn't dare turn around; I was too frightened by far.

Silence: then—

A sudden thud as the lantern rolled into a table leg; the candle going out: My heart leaping.

A lifetime seemed to pass as _we_ both stood there, watching and being watched. And then I heard footsteps behind me, light and self-assured; felt an all-too familiar pair of hands reach out to rest on my hips in maddening confidence as the memorable heat of their owner's body drew closer, warming me easily through my thin cotton dress…

And then, the crowning glory: the tingling sensation of warm breath ruffling my white nightdress as the unexpected guest leant closer to ask, lowered voice doing little to reduce the playful mischief of its tone,

"Frightened? And here I was, thinking that you missed me."

**-x!x-**


	11. Epiphany

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Ten:** Epiphany_

Presently I found myself seated on a hard, rickety stool at the scrubbed kitchen table, my hands clasped primly before me. Behind me I could hear the visitor fidgeting silently in the dark, whistling a low tune as he worked at lighting my lantern; another sputter, a slight flicker, and a hiss as once again the tiny flame spluttered out.

"These are useless," he muttered to no one in particular; there was a slight rattling sound that I assumed was him shaking the lantern, followed by a crash and a muttered curse.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing!"

"You broke my lamp, didn't you?"

"…A little bit, yes."

I inhaled deeply, letting my breath slowly out in a controlled sigh.

"Well, never mind that," I murmured quietly, my hands fumbling as I turned on the stool so as to face him, though I couldn't see him in the total darkness.

"It's a full moon tonight, isn't it?"

"Aye…"

"So why don't we just… pull back one of the shutters? Let the moonlight stream in through the window."

He made a grunt of agreement; I heard three steps, followed by a thud and a rattling of metallic pans that made me wince and cover my face in despair.

"Jack! I swear! You're loud enough to wake the dead!"

"Interesting how you chose to say those words with the moon so high," he commented, and I could tell from his tone that his words were a sly reference to one of his many adventures. A reference to what, I didn't know, nor did I bother to ask.

He took another three more audibly cautious steps before suddenly freezing, and I frowned.

"Jack?"

"Shush!" Only he didn't say 'shush' in so many words, but I did hear the flapping of his arm, or rather, his coat and shirt, which I assumed was an invisible indication for me to be silent.

"What?" I hissed quietly, twisting my nightgown nervously between my fingers.

"Do you hear that?"

A silence as I cocked my head, followed by a whispered, "No."

"Someone's coming."

"With the racket you're making, I'm not surprised. Go on: hide."

Light footsteps, and a callused hand wrapped itself about my wrist, tugging me onto my feet.

"Do you have shoes?"

I was hesitant, wondering if he was about to ask me to elope with him, but then decided against it.

"What, now? On me? That I'm wearing at this very moment?"

"Yeah."

"No, my feet are bare—" I was cut off by a hurriedly-muffled shriek as I was suddenly swept up into the air, slung heavily over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" I hissed, both irritated and bemused, rising an inch or two as he shrugged.

"There's glass on the floor; now shut up and be quiet."

I clamped my mouth shut and obeyed, fisting his frockcoat as I bounced up and down in time with his hurried steps.

"Jack? Jack!" I leant down and gave his rump a hearty slap; judging by the sudden shudder and suppressed squeak, I had gained his attention. Forcing myself back up, I whispered hurriedly to him, "You didn't come here with the sole purpose of… _abducting_ me, did you?"

I hoped I didn't sound too eager; men tend to like aggressive women, as long as they weren't overbearingly so.

Jack groaned, pausing as he rattled with what I realised was the back door, finally losing patience and simply kicking it open; an action which caused me to suppress yet another squeak as I was once again allotted an unexpected bounce.

"Let's talk of this later," he suggested as he set me down on my feet, and I saw his black silhouette turn in the silvery light as he pulled the door shut. I had barely caught a glimpse of his face before his hand was wrapped around my wrist once more, causing me to stumble and curse as he dragged me across the dusty veranda and into a corner swathed in flowers and shadows. Releasing me, he leapt over the waist-high barrier with an uncharacteristic grace, and gestured that I follow him. I, however, was wearing a long white nightgown, and had to settle for climbing clumsily over, the vines snagging at my skirt.

"For Christ's sake, woman!" he hissed, reaching out to pull me up and into his arms, apparently uncaring of the inescapable ripping sound this caused, and I knew instinctively that a good five inches had been taken off of the end of my dress.

"Jack! You—"

His hand clamped tightly over my mouth as he pulled me down into a squatting position, and, with my back pressing against his chest, ordered me to bring my knees up into my chest. And thus we sat, breathing raggedly. Then, just as I was about to shake my head out of his tight grip and reprimand him for his paranoia, I heard the door slowly creak open, followed by two sets of low, cautious footsteps, and saw before me the brightening glimmer of a golden lantern, flickering eerie shadows that leered at us from between the imported rose bushes.

The sharpest, most distinct shadow was that of a bayonet; the long, pointed edge attached to the barrel was particularly clear, and I felt my heart leap as I realised that if the guards were to look over the edge, they would have absolutely no hesitation in driving that slender dagger into Jack's skull if they were to see me pulled into his lap, my mouth covered as though he wished to prevent me from crying out.

And they _were_ going to lean over and look; I heard one of the men whisper to the other about the long strip of my white nightgown, snagged accusingly on the greedy fingers of the vine that wrapped about the slender pillar of wood. Judging by how Jack's other hand had reached down to pull out his pistol, he knew it too.

Reaching up, I tugged worriedly at his sleeve, puckered my lips against his palm, and pointed to the approaching men, widening my eyes in a desperate attempt at silently conveying, "I have a plan."

Jack hesitated, casting his eyes upwards and back in the direction of the approaching sentinels, nodded, and released me. I immediately set to work, pulling his hat slightly off of his head and gathering all of his hair together, tucking the black strands hastily under the rim, before pulling it down again. My hands reached up his shoulders, pushing off his coat; I undid the thick leather baldric slung over his torso and dropped that beside us before pulling apart his long vest and reaching down to tug at his shirt.

The sentries' footsteps had quietened, were almost inaudible; clearly they were biding their time, waiting patiently before making the kill. Without giving it another thought, I pushed Jack hurriedly against the fencing—he gave an "Oof!" of pained surprise as he fell, his head no doubt absorbing most of the hurt—crawled into his lap, hitched my skirt up around my waist, ripped open what pathetic excuse of a bodice the nightgown possessed, and forced my lips against his. And then we both waited.

A long silence told me that the guards had stopped; Jack was clearly too taken aback to do anything except just sit there, so it was up to me pull one hand down to rest on my buttock, and tug the other pass my ripped dress and arrange it so that he was caressing my breast. It was only _after_ all this was done that Jack exhibited signs of life, and even then it had only been an amused, throaty chuckle.

"What the—"

Such were the first words of the man brave enough to peer over at us; as quickly as we kissed, Jack and I broke apart; he kept his head low, breathing heavily, whilst I widened my eyes and pulled away, squealing as though just realising I was half-naked and rushing to cover myself amidst cries of "Merde!" and "Oh mon dieu!" When I was certain that my shock and surprise had thoroughly convinced them that my embarrassment was genuine, I crawled back towards my lover, and pulled at the purse of coins dangling off of his belt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack's brown orbs widen, and slapped his hand away before he could reach down and thus thwart my attempts at pulling his money off of his belt. Tugging at the drawstring, I reached into the dark folds and pulled out a handful of large gold coins that may have been either Spanish doubloons or English guineas; it was hard to tell in the flickering candlelight. Whatever the coins were, I counted out six of them and, dropping the purse into his lap, reached out to the two men, my eyes widened as I pleaded in pretty French.

It took a couple of pokes, and a threatening kick aimed at his groin, but Jack eventually translated in a voice brimming with resentment, "Milady requests that you fine upstanding young gents, on pain of death, remain discreet about our… whate'er it was that you've so recently witnessed."

When the second part of my speech was unforthcoming, I reached down and gave his genitals a suggestive squeeze that had him jerking in sudden fear; for I certainly hadn't been in any way caressing him.

"And she'll reward you handsomely for such loyal prudence," he added grudgingly, and my fingers released their hold, moving to stroke his thigh in silent affection.

"…Right," said the second guard, although it was more of a squeak; his companion, a whey-faced youth, could only stare and gurgle, and it was then that I realised my breast was once again on display. I seemed to spend a lot of my time as Nicolette somewhat naked. "Well, that… that don't sound too bad, does it, Jimmy?" he nudged, his eyes falling greedily on the gold held out in my outstretched hand.

"…Breast," was all the teenager could get out, and the older of the two closed his eyes and lowered his head in embarrassment. "Breast breast breast breast breast…"

"Oh, shut up," his cohort snapped.

"Bre—Wha'?"

"Stop saying 'breast.'"

"…I ain't saying 'breast.'"

"You are, Jimmy; you are."

"Am I?"

"Aye."

"Oh. Sorry." And he turned to me and, leaning hungrily closer, stated simply, "Nipple: nipple nipple nipple nipple nipple…"

Jack's hand was resting on the hilt of his sword, and I hurriedly pulled my nightgown up onto my shoulder lest he behead the young virgin. The older guard slapped his young colleague, reached out to snatch the coins from my hand, and with a dazed bow, pulled the boy, who was now saying "Naked," away from us without another word. I let out an audible giggle as I leant closer to Jack, my ears pricked for their fading footsteps.

"Weren't that the guv'nor's niece?" the youth was saying in a bewildered tone. "The—the French… _lady_ that's niece on his missus' side; the countess what was rescued from pirates and sent 'ere a week ago, 'oo's engaged to some plantation owner in Martinique?"

"Aye, Jimmy, that it was."

"So what she doing in the arms o' that dir'y bastard then?"

"Well she's French, ain't she?"

I frowned at this, quirking my eyebrow even as I gave Jack one kiss after another.

"…'E _was_ a dirty bastard, weren't he, Greg?"

"Aye, Jimmy; a lucky dirty bastard."

Jack laughed silently, pulling away to look at me thoughtfully in the moonlight.

"He's right, you know."

"About you being a bastard? Yes, I know." And with these words, I carefully disentangled myself from his arms, standing and studying my nightgown thoughtfully.

"Now what's all this? A change of heart?"

A few of my buttons had been completely ripped off; there was dust and dirt on my hands, feet, calves and knees; and my stomach was slowly sinking as it dawned on me that, though I'd bought their silence with Jack's gold, the two pacing sentries would doubtless inform Christophe, or Paul, or Governor Hale himself, of my activities. Flavio and I could be arrested, whipped, placed in the stocks, and left at the mercy of the colonial public on charges of deception and fraud. In Tortuga, one of the girls who hailed from London had told us the story of how the madam of her brothel had been sentenced to three days in the stocks for tax evasion, prostitution, soliciting and theft: after only three hours, her heavily-powdered face had been bludgeoned beyond recognition. When the authorities came to release her, she had already been dead for two and a half days. Now I was slowly recognising that my wanton little stunt with Jack may have condemned both me and my maid to a familiar fate.

And all because of this… _pirate_.

"Jack…"

"Yes, darling?"

I was hesitant, unable to continue for fear of the answer; swallowing, I ploughed on regardless.

"What are you doing here?"

Now it was Jack's turn to hesitate; with exaggerated care, he occupied himself with gathering and counting the coins in his purse, adjusting his clothing, pulling off his hat and releasing his hair as he massaged the back of his skull.

"Don't tell me you don't know," I said warningly as he opened his mouth; with only the slightest hint of a scowl, he turned away and snapped it shut again. "You _do_ know, and _I_ want to know, because it's only fair; after all, I am the one placed most at risk by your little visit."

"That's not true, and you know it," Jack said at once. "What about me, and your lustful little maid, hmm?"

"Flavio is nothing a pet rabbit can't cure," I dismissed, pausing as the words _lustful_ and _rabbit_ came together to paint a very disturbing picture. "Jack… Be honest, _please_: what are you doing here?"

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"You were supposed to have left Jamaica a week ago… Weren't you?"

Jack threw back his head, winced as his skull thudded rather loudly against the wood, but laughed regardless.

"Oh Sierra, I fear I've greatly misjudged you; have you nothing inside that pretty head? It's foolish to set sail in such an unforgiving squall."

I blinked, confused.

"What?"

Jack arched an eyebrow, perplexed at my uncertainty.

"Christ, woman; have you been asleep the six days past?"

I lowered my gaze, embarrassed, and began quietly, "That night that… that we said goodbye; with all of the things that we'd done, and… and with the… the induced…" I hesitated, biting my lip and dabbing surreptitiously at the corner of my eye. "The miscarriage, that happened just a few hours before… I'd taken ill, and… Yes; yes, I have been… asleep for six days."

When I had the courage to look up again, I saw palpable concern in Jack's eyes. There was a silence, and then he said, "You lied to me."

My head snapped up at this. "What?"

Jack raised a hooked finger, and beckoned me closer.

"You lied to me," he repeated when I had crawled up into his lap. "Before we drowned—smoked—fuc—_buried_, as it were, away our sorrows, I'd asked you about… _your_ child…" I noticed how he'd stepped around 'our,' but couldn't blame him, because there really was no way to tell if the baby I'd… lost, had been Jack's or not. I'd thought that it was, though, and still do; women have a sense about these things.

"…If it had been alright; if we could engage in such activities, so soon after your loss. Do you remember that, darling?"

I drew a shaky breath before whispering, "Yes…"

"And what did you say in reply?"

"That it'd be fine; that there was nothing to worry about; that you… _worried_ too much."

"You knew, didn't you?" he said softly to me. "That you were putting your health at risk."

I nodded at this, feeling frozen inside. "She told me; Erin told me…"

Jack's lips grazed against my cheek, his breath teasing my ear as he whispered, "So why did you do it, then? Why did you say yes?"

I bit my lip and turned away, suddenly uncomfortable. "I don't—"

"Aha!" Jack suddenly exclaimed, and I flinched, my eyes darting wildly around me before returning to rest on his triumphant features. Straightening he said, in a voice and accent that would have been cruel in its mockery had it not been delivered so playfully, "Don't tell me you don't know; because you _do_ know, and I know that you know, therefore I _want_ to know what you know, and not only do I want to know, I have the right to know; for I am, after all, the one placed most at risk by my visit here."

There was a pause at this, and then, my features threatening to rebel against the stoic mask I'd schooled them into, I leant close to whisper breathily against his lips,

"You annoyingly articulate wanker."

Jack snorted before he could stop himself, and leant forward to steal a quick kiss before straightening and saying to me, "In all solemnity, that was _not_ the reply that I had been anticipating."

I smiled, curling further into his lap. "I know."

"But to return to our intimate tête-à-tête…" he steered, and I felt my heart skipping a beat in uneasy anticipation.

"Why did you do it, hmm? Furthermore, why did you initiate such proceedings?"

I was hesitant; the truth was, it had honestly seemed like a good idea at the time. But I knew that such an answer would not be viewed as satisfactory by Jack; I myself was unwilling to accept it.

"Because…" I began, hesitated, and took the plunge.

"Oh, Jack," I tried again, reaching up to grab his chin and gently force him to look down at me. "Jack, if you had been in my place, and if you had seen how… how hurt, how _forlorn_ you had looked when you'd found out that Pearl had—was…" I bit my lip and cleared my throat before continuing in a parched whisper,

"And if you had loved me half as much as I had loved you in that single moment… you'd have done exactly the same thing."

Jack's face, which had been a map of kindness and compassion, had immediately closed up at my whispered confession; I closed my eyes and looked away, a stab of rejection piercing my gut when I felt his body stiffen as the full implication of my words sank in; indeed, I was so affected by his reaction, or lack thereof, that I was already opening my mouth to take everything back before a voice said scornfully,

_Oh, as if you didn't know._

It took me a moment to realise that the words were addressed to Jack, and not myself, and when I did, I was confronted with an unexpected epiphany. Of _course_ Jack had known; he was a very observant man, and I had never been a very subtle woman. And yet he had the balls—well actually, he might not be having them for much longer—to act as though I had dropped a bomb into his lap, and an extremely unpleasant bomb at that: because he _wanted_ to be perceived as cold, callous, inconsiderate.

He wanted me to hate him.

It had always been his way of ending his relationships with women; have _them_ end it, allow them to believe that they were leaving him because he was a selfish amoral prick. Jack's seemingly inadvertent cruelty and spite, the sudden shift in his personality that I had experienced: all an act; a clever act designed to save me from nursing a broken heart. And, I saw with sudden clarity, he had _wanted_ Anamaria to tell me that he had only been pretending to be drunk that night I went with Jean-François. And he'd deliberately made a show of kissing and caressing and laughing with Cate, just to make sure that whatever lingering regard I still felt for him evaporated.

Suddenly, I was seeing everything Jack had said, everything Jack had done, in a new light: _His_ light, to be exact. And what I saw was a human being: just a man, nothing more. After all, no man could possibly live up to the exotic fabrication that was Captain Jack Sparrow, but I supposed I ought to give him credit for trying.

Shaking my head, my mind returned to the current situation, and his cold distance.

"Jack," I began slowly, "you know what I said just now, about loving you unconditionally?"

"Yes…?" he sighed, but he said it with a coldness that merely confirmed my theory; for there was, after all, a lingering trace of hope in his voice.

"I intend to stick unequivocally by it."

Jack threw his head back, and you'd have thought, after three bumps already, he'd have learnt his lesson by now.

"Oh, God…" he muttered, irritated, and I had to smother down a grin as I reached up and gave him a hug.

_Too far, Jack; too far._ Invoking the Almighty's name in the manner that he had done had directly contradicted with the hidden, repressed coldness he had been displaying merely moments before; as though he cared about my feelings, but hadn't returned them. If I kept up with my heartfelt declarations of undying love, he might just push me off of his lap. Smirking into his neck, I pushed this temptation to the back of my mind, and gave his skin a playful nip that made his body shudder in surprise.

"So tell me, Captain Sparrow," I continued to whisper, although we were, for all intents and purposes, completely safe and utterly alone, "exactly what are you doing here? I've answered your rather intimate question; it's only fair that you should answer mine, considering how I did, of course, ask it first."

"And exactly what question—ah!—" as I gently grazed his Adam's apple with my teeth "would that be?"

"What _are_ you doing here? The storm _is_ over now… And no lies!" I warned as Jack opened his mouth. "And you can't use any words exceeding four syllables in your twenty-word explanation either."

"Twenty words?"

"Yes."

"_Just_ twenty?"

I sighed and pulled my lips away from his skin.

"You're right, you're right; let's give you ten instead—oh!—And it has to start with 'Because,' so _technically_, you only have nine words…"

In the moonlight, Jack's dark eyebrow had quirked in amusement; clearly he had realised that I wasn't about to fall so readily for his false insensitivity, and if his easy smile and relaxed shoulders were anything to go by, he was somewhat relieved of the fact. Interesting, that.

"Any other stipulations I should know of, my lady fair?"

I lowered my lashes coyly, and said, "No… Besides a little reward for whatever compliment on my ravishing beauty you're able to work into your explanation, which is more of a bonus than anything else."

"The reward being?"

"Ah," I said with a kiss on his jaw, "now _that_ depends on the compliment."

"Mademoiselle, you drive a hard bargain."

"At this very moment, I think the word 'hard' can be more aptly used to describe something else. But enough of this playful banter. What, exactly, are you doing here?"

"'Here' having the meaning of…?"

I reached up and gave his beard a firm yank. "Jack…"

A beat as I watched him struggle—yes, actually _struggle_!—to collect his thoughts.

"Well—" But I was feeling like a nuisance, and with one finger, stopped him in his reasoning.

"It _must_ begin with 'because,'" I reminded imperiously.

Jack narrowed his eyes, parting his lips and nipping on my finger, and for one horrid moment, I was back in that dream, where the sparrow had used his little beak to tear my mouth open. But this had just been a gentle, playful nip that even a kitten would have been ashamed of, and I forced myself to relax.

"_Because…_" he stressed, and that was about as far as he could get. I raised an eyebrow and sat expectantly as he furrowed his forehead, pursed his lips, and glanced about him for inspiration. Clearing his throat, he tried again:

"Because… at our last parting—"

"Five more words," I warned, but besides a slight narrowing of the eyes, Jack gave no indication that he had heard me.

"As I left—_don't_—this fine dwelling and exited by way of the balcony, it suddenly occurred to me that I—" Another pause, and I nodded; it was a well-documented fact that when it came to matters of the heart, men were far less eloquent and articulate than women.

"Well, I… realised…" he said slowly, almost stupidly, "that I miss—missed! Missed!—that I _was_ missing, rather…"

"Go on," I prompted gently; Jack's eyes darted wildly around before settling on me, and he blurted out,

"A chandelier."

The singing of the cicadas grew ever louder as I merely stared incredulously up at him.

"…What?"

"A chandelier," Jack insisted. "There's a lovely one of crystal in your fair ballroom, and I've no such adornment in my cabin, you know."

I closed my eyes, my mind desperately fighting down the instinct to reach up and slap him.

On the other hand, instinct was there for a reason.

"I _did not_ deserve that!" Jack sulked as he turned back to face me.

"Yes you did; it's for lying to me, breaking and entering into what is to all effects and purposes my home, and freely admitting a desire to filch my uncle's chandelier; if anything, you deserve a broken nose."

"And it's not because I didn't say that I missed _you_?" he asked slyly.

"Do you?"

Another silence.

"…I miss the chandelier."

Another slap, and then I crawled off of his lap to sit beside him, knees drawn up into my chest, face twisted into a childish sulk.

"Fine; go steal your blasted crystal chandelier."

"You're a diamond, love. Now come on; up you get."

Incredulous, I turned to see him standing before me, a hand stretched out as an invitation. I regarded his long, dirty fingers with some suspicion.

"_Why?_"

Jack simply shrugged.

"It's very challenging, dismantling a chandelier by oneself; what do you think I've been doing for the past hour and a half?"

I just stared at him for a little while longer.

"Is this how _little_ you think of me—of my mind, of my need for independence, of my free will—that I would simply just get up and help you steal a crystal chandelier, just because you asked?"

"Yes," Jack said evenly, and I sighed, accepting his fingers and straightening my dress as I stood, bare-breasted, before him.

"You know me far too well."

* * *

Jack hadn't been lying when he'd said that it was difficult to dismantle a chandelier; even though there were two of us working on picking the carefully-cut structure apart, it still took us another hour before the fixture was lying in chunks that were of a decent size for transport.

"I'd love to hear how you plan to smuggle all this out," I grumbled, pushing my sweaty hair from out of my face.

"Isn't it obvious, sweetheart? We'll hide all this—" he gestured vaguely, barely looking at me "—somewhere in the governor's garden, and come twilight tomorrow, me and my faithful band of miscreants will return to retrieve that w…"

As Jack had spoken, looking maddeningly cool and unaffected by the humid heat and sweaty toil of our labour, I had given into temptation and stepped out of my nightdress. Evidently, the pirate had only just noticed me standing stark naked, using my only item of clothing as a rudimentary towel.

"What?" I asked, confused. "You've seen me naked before."

"What a ridiculous argument; it's like saying after one sip of rum, you'll ne'er touch more."

"Well I'm not rum, and you can't touch," I stated, pulling the gown over my head and concentrating on what buttons I had left so that he didn't see my pleased smile.

"Now what's all that about your ragged band of miscreants? You don't plan to raid the governor's mansion, do you?"

"Well, now that you've mentioned it—"

"Jack…"

"Oh, why not?" he insisted. "You've not been subject to a black-hearted buccaneer's pirate raid, have you?"

"No."

"Then allow me to paint you a picture: they tend to begin in the dark of the night, when the only indication of the horrors to come are simply flickering shadows on the walls, and a sense of general disquiet. Then, as though signalled, the cutthroat cads swarm out into the open and proceed to raid, pillage, plunder and maim, whilst a select few—led by the captain, never a taller, more fearsome creature to behold, of course—What? Why are you laughing?—creep into the governor's home, throw the master of the house down a well, and proceed to comb the stately home for every sign of treasure that could be found. To the gentlemen, we are ruthless; the ladies, gallant—and far more so than those bloody highwaymen." The disgust he felt for the roadside bandit was palpable. I smiled in spite of myself whilst wondering if, like Teresa and her warring elves and pixies, there was also a rivalry between the gentlemen of the road and of the sea.

"Surely you're not _always_ gallant?" I purred, rising happily to his bait.

"Without exception," Jack maintained. "An exception, of course, being the—if you'll pardon my verbal larceny—'ravishing beauty' that sits at her bedside…"

"Doing what?"

"I don't know; one would presume she was simply waiting to be ravished. They usually do."

"And what happens to her?"

"Well, it goes without saying that the captain is the only one that does the ravishing."

"And does he ravish her thoroughly?"

"Ravages her beyond recognition," Jack confirmed, and I smiled.

"Is that a promise?"

"It's a threat."

Alas, I was the one that broke off the banter, sighing and pulling my dress closed. "Oh Jack, would that it were I could accept you so easily. But as it is… I have to keep my health in mind." Studying my feet, I added, almost ashamed, "If I'm not careful, I might no longer be able to conceive. And I wouldn't want that."

"…Are you feeling all right?" he asked me, clearly concerned.

"Yes, Jack; the reason I sound so different is that now I'm thinking with my head instead of my genitalia."

There was a silence as Jack's eyes darted around the ballroom that we stood in.

"God's teeth, woman, what have they done to you here? Why a man would encourage women to think with their heads as opposed to their genitals is entirely beyond me."

I smiled at this, glancing down at the broken chandelier.

"You really should go," I said to him quietly. "I'll have some servants handle the overly-mutilated light fixture in the morning, but you really do need to get back to your _Pearl_."

Jack yawned in agreement, stepping forward to take me by the arms as he looked intensely into my eyes.

"Before I go…" he began. "I have to ask you one final, incredibly important question."

Moving closer, I reached up to wrap my arms about his neck, burying my head into his neck as I closed my eyes, savouring the sensation.

"I'm listening."

"Would you like your eggs poached or scrambled?"

I furrowed my brow at this, taken aback.

"What?"

* * *

"Poached or scrambled," Flavio was saying as I opened my eyes and sat up in bed, realising that what I was hugging wasn't Jack at all, but rather, my pillow. Beaming, my maid settled himself on the edge of the mattress, and explained, "I'm just going to pop down to the kitchen and fetch some breakfast, and was wondering if you had a preference…"

I could only look down at my pillow in mute shock; then, incensed, I reared up and threw it across the room, causing Flavio to flinch as it bounced harmlessly off of the wall. Then I covered my face with my hands, and released a piercing scream of frustration.

It was only after my aggravation had subsided that I became aware of a quiet whimpering; curious, I looked over to find a cowering Flavio curled up in a ball. Presented with such a pitiable tableau, it was inevitable that my mothering instinct would dominate, and I leant down to stroke his golden hair amidst words of comfort and apologies.

Presently, Flavio sat up, and in a quiet, stuttering voice, repeated his question.

"…Scrambled, please," I said to him quietly, giving him a sidelong smile and reaching out to pat his hand. Confused and nervous, Flavio nodded once and left the room, closing the door behind him as he went.

Only when I was alone did my body slump, and I leant forward to bury my face in my hands.

"Stupid," I muttered fiercely to myself as white hot tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. "Stupid, stupid, stupid, _stupid_…"

Then, as another wave of anger swept over me, I suddenly straightened and, seizing the lone pillow that remained on the bed beside me, proceeded to hit myself repetitively whilst my mind silently shouted _Pathetic!_ until Flavio announced his return with a cheery "Breakfast!"

**-x!x-**


	12. Ode to Julian

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Eleven:** Ode to Julian_

"_A lady should find it very shaming,_" Paul whispered to me as I smiled and curtsied the last visitor out, "_that her maid owns more exquisite gowns than her._"

"_Oh, Paul,_" Christophe chastised from his armchair, "_leave my sister alone. If this is how you treat women, it's no small wonder you're not yet married._"

I smiled at this, smoothing down the teal skirt of the dress Flavio had reluctantly leant me; watching from a corner, the maid crossed his arms and scowled, turning away in a sulk. Earlier, Paul and Christophe had voiced their opinions about 'her insolence,' but I had calmly informed both men that, considering how the dress I wore _was_ Flavio's, and it had been his favourite, and he had to adjust it to fit my larger bust, and a thousand other reasons that I was unable to voice, for at that moment, Paul had told me to shut up, and I had to straighten in my seat and smile benignly as the first of many visitors arrived.

Huh, 'many.' That word couldn't even begin to describe the unpredictable flood of callers, sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three or more, that had preceded the bright sunshine—a phenomenon that had apparently not been witnessed for eight days. A morning which I would have much preferred to have spent outside, voluntarily soaking in potentially harmful UVA rays, but alas, it was not to be.

"_They're here to see you, sister. Aren't they, Paul?"_

"_Yes, it's true. God knows why, though; I mean, you're not—"_

"_Paul…"_

"_What?"_

And it was true; somehow, word of my arrival—that is to say, the arrival of the Governor's niece who just so happened to be a French countess—had spread like ironic wildfire during the week or so that Kingston was besieged by rain. I assumed my callers would have visited sooner, had the climate been more accommodating; but now that the sun had come out, so had the Caribbean's citizens. So far, I had been visited by a social-climbing mother and her chubby teenaged daughter; a bourgeois newly-wed with slightly protruding teeth who had clearly jumped at the chance to leave her husband's home; several happily married middle-aged women; a Puritan spinster, a handful of gentlemen, and two lieutenants who I could have sworn had been peacocks in another life. The current gentleman a nameless footman was ushering out had been a fop, and a fop who had been eager to unleash his truly dreadful French on my unsuspecting ears at that. His name was Bosworth, and horrendous French aside, I thought he was a rather sweet, intelligent fellow. He was the only individual I had personally invited to return for supper that evening, and I had earned a rather unpleasant look from Christophe because of it.

"_You're engaged, Nicolette,_" he hissed into my ear as we made our way to the dining room, where lunch was to be served. "_Or have you conveniently forgotten your betrothal to Sauveterre?_"

"_Oh, don't be ridiculous!_" I said, spinning on my heel to face him. "_As if I could think of any man besides Sauveterre!_" I paused to swallow, my eyes involuntarily darting down his shirt, catching a glimpse of light muscle sparsely sprinkled with fine hair, and then I shook my head, smiling nervously as I stepped back. "_My fiancé, Sauveterre,_" I muttered under my breath as I clasped my skirts and followed Paul, muttering the name under my breath so as to embed it into my memory. "_Sauveterre, Sauveterre, Sauveterre… Christophe?_" I added as I passed through the doorway.

"_Yes, Nicolette?_"

I hesitated, both curious and uncertain. "_Have I met… Sauveterre?_" I began clumsily, waiting for one of the footmen to come to his senses and pull out my seat. "_Do I love him, Christophe? Is it a love match? I… I don't recall. I'm sorry._"

Christophe's blue eyes softened and he hesitated, suddenly tentative.

"_He's a good match, Nicolette,_" he said at last. "_Wealthy; immaculate breeding. A little older than you are perhaps, but… You'll grow to love him._"

"_Is he handsome?_"

The corners of Christophe's mouth quirked. "_No worse than cousin Paul._"

"_But worse than you?_"

Christophe laughed, kissing my hand before moving to pull my seat out for me; I nearly jumped as he brushed his lips briefly against my cheek, hand gently massaging my covered shoulder as he did so. He must have sensed my repressed reaction, for I saw him frowning as he pulled away, lips pursed in bafflement.

"_Are you quite all right, Nicolette?_" he asked of me, not for the first time. "_You seem… tense._"

_I am tense,_ I thought irritably as I looked up into his concerned blue eyes. _I'm desperately suppressing the urge to drug your wine and drag you up to my bed!_ Instead, I said, "_I've not been sleeping very well, Christophe. I haven't been sleeping well for many weeks now._"

"_How come?_"

"_Nightmares,_" I answered truthfully. "_And I'm not used to… here._"

He nodded in sympathy. "_I understand completely,_" he whispered to me, taking the seat beside me and covering my hand with his own, fingers stroking mine in an attempt at silent comfort. He had beautiful hands; lightly tanned with long, elegant fingers, only slightly callused, due no doubt to fencing and other gentlemanly pastimes he pursued. An athlete, no doubt; and at a time when regular physical labour was reserved only to the lower classes. I tried not to think of the muscles that such sports he pursued would have cultivated, particularly the arms, as fencing was the only sport I could think of for him. And I tried not to think of Jack's arms, and how they had rippled black and gold in the candlelight.

And I tried not to think of Jack, because I was certain I would cry if I did.

"_We'll remain in Kingston until our uncle returns,_" Christophe promised me. "_And then, with his leave, I'll accompany you to Martinique, where Antoine de Sauveterre no doubt eagerly awaits your… hand._"

His eyes had dropped to my dress, his expression unmistakably disapproving of his little sister's curves, and all thoughts of hypnotic eyes and golden grins vanished as I felt myself flush.

Thankfully Flavio, who had followed us into the dining room in that childish, sulky manner of his, chose that exact moment to knock over a vase; the combined shriek of fear and crash that followed distracted my newfound brother, and gave me a chance to school my features into an expression of aristocratic indifference. Turning in my seat, I watched as Flavio bent down to gather up the discarded flowers, whilst another maid appeared armed with a brush so as to sweep up the broken china.

"_Wait for me in my room, Jeanne-Louise,_" I instructed haughtily, "_We'll discuss this later._"

Nodding, the blond dipped a quick curtsy and, still cradling the white flowers, scurried out of the room, disappearing around a corner.

"_Honestly, I don't know why you keep her,_" Christophe remarked as a pair of footmen arrived with the meal. "_She's insolent, childish, is completely unaware of her place—_"

"_I like her, Christophe,_" I interrupted firmly. "_I consider her to be a great friend._"

"Oh, God…" Paul muttered from opposite us, but we ignored him.

"_You shouldn't befriend the help,_" Christophe continued to castigate me, and I rolled my eyes, picking up a fork. "_It gives them ideas—_"

"_He's right, you know,_" Paul opined, quite uninvited. "_Why, you should have had her thrashed for ruining Mother's vase alone; the lower orders aren't like us, you know._"

I opened my mouth to disagree, but then snapped it shut again; Nicolette was, after all, a supposedly passive, submissive character. …Well, _my_ Nicolette was, at any rate.

"_Nicolette,_" Christophe began, lazily poking at his chicken, "_Did you hear anything last night?_"

"_No, I did not,_" I answered truthfully, cutting up a potato and spearing it onto my fork. "_I was… sound asleep. Why do you ask?_"

I popped the potato into my mouth as Paul and Christophe exchanged knowing glances, chewing as a silent message seemed to pass between them. And then, as one, they both rushed to clumsily inform me of the previous night's events in a dialogue that was best described as confusing:

"_Well, our cousin believes that we had a thief—_"

"_Your brother thinks a runaway slave—_"

"—_broke in and stole—_"

"—_who escaped only last night—_"

"—_some candlesticks—_"

"—_Mother's remaining jewels—_"

"—_silk drapes—_"

"—_Father's favourite stallion—_"

"—_our Aunt's emerald necklace—_"

I put down my cutlery and motioned that the both of them stop, but they continued in their disjointed narration, eventually culminating in the harmonious chorus of, "_And the chandelier!_"

I could only blink and stare.

"…_What?—No!_" I added as both men opened their mouths. "_One at a time please! Yes, Christophe?_"

"_Apparently,_" Christophe began after a somewhat victorious glance at his cousin, "_we were visited by a thief only last night._"

"…_Oh?_" I said at last. "_And what makes you say that?_"

"_The servants have reported several objects as missing earlier this morning,_" Christophe informed me. "_Paul believes that there was a thief, and yet one of the slaves—a footman, in fact—is said to be missing—_"

"_Well, I apologise,_" Paul interrupted sharply, "_but I fail to see how a slave intelligent enough to plan an escape in the first place would waste time—_" He was silenced by Christophe's cold glare, and instead turned his attention to his food, toying sulkily with his carrots whilst my brother proceeded to look incredibly handsome as he explained how someone had, in the dead of night, silently plundered the Hales' home with admirable sufficiency.

"…_and if there was a thief,_" he was concluding as I placed a miscellany of vegetables into my mouth, "_he must have had an accomplice—someone who knows the house well._"

"_Oh? And what makes you say that?_" I asked mildly, taking a sip of my (at Christophe's request) watered-down wine.

"_Because the bloody chandelier is missing!_" Paul exploded.

There was a second crash as my glass slipped out of my hand with a clatter, and I reached up to cover my mouth with my fingers as I began to choke. Christophe played the part of protective sibling with flair, simultaneously patting my back and pulling me towards him so that when I had stopped coughing, I found myself happily tangled in an affectionate embrace. Smiling, I hesitantly pulled away from his arms and, with some effort, pushed the various emotions churning within me aside to ask disbelievingly,

"_How does one steal a chandelier?_"

"_Not without prior knowledge of the building and its various light fixtures,_" Christophe replied, shooting a somewhat victorious glance at Paul. His blue eyes returned to me, softening as he looked down at his little sister with such fondness that a wave of guilt over my 'incestuous' inclinations rose within me.

"…_Well,_" I said at last, returning to my meal, "_slave or thief, I hope you find him._" And I picked up my fork and continued to eat the rest of my lunch in silence.

* * *

When I entered my room, silent and contemplative, I was greeted by the sight of Flavio arranging a bouquet of white lilies on my desk, humming merrily as he worked.

"Flavio…" I said slowly as I closed the door behind me, watching him from under lowered lashes, "Last night… Did I leave my room?"

Flavio widened his violet eyes, blinked three times, and shook his head slowly. "No, I don't think so—But what do you think of my flowers?" he added excitedly, pointing at the lilies and beaming in pride.

"Very nice, Flavio," I complimented disinterestedly, and saw his face fall at my indifference. "No, no, _really_—they're beautiful. Were they the ones you knocked over in the dining room?"

Flavio nodded his blond head happily, beckoning that I come closer. When I had reached him, he reached over to pluck out one ivory blossom, wiping gently at the emerald stem before turning to me and holding the bloom out shyly. I smiled at this, and accepted the gift with a bright smile that made him bashfully duck his head and blush.

"What would I do without you?" I said fondly, my fingers gently caressing the snowy petals as I studied the lily. "I'm so lucky that I have someone as sweet and considerate as you are, Flavio."

Flavio's cheeks flushed with pleasure, and he giggled, clapping his hands in childlike delight. Setting the lily gently down on the desk, I reached out to cup his face in both hands, smiling as he closed his eyes in contentment.

"Promise me," I murmured seriously, "that no matter what happens with Paul or Christophe or anything else, that you'll stay with me."

"I promise!" Flavio assured me eagerly. "I absolutely, completely and utterly _promise_, Si-Si!"

I closed my eyes in pain as he unknowingly parroted Pearl's own affectionate term of endearment, but smiled regardless, allowing him to take my hands and lead me to my bed as he continued his incessant jabbering.

"I swear!" he was saying, bequeathing an affectionate hug after we had sat down and accidentally knocking me back onto the mattress. "I _swear_, Sierra, to never never never never _never_ leave you! Throughout the ages to come, I will be by your side, life after life after life, throughout all of your incarnations, from this day forward! Stalking you, _for the rest of eternity!_ Regardless of whether you want me to or not!"

I was about to open my mouth and interrupt him, but froze as his words registered. Slowly, I pulled back to look at him, mouth hanging open.

"_What_ did you just say?"

Flavio was still beaming as he repeated, "I swear to stalk you for all eternity, regardless of whether you wish me to or no!"

My eyes widened, and I drew away, regarding him in a new light.

"…Flavio?" I asked quietly as he continued to grin madly at me, "Can you please fetch me some water? My throat feels a little dry."

"Of course!" he consented, bouncing happily off of the bed and skipping to the door. Sitting up, I watched as my maid retreated, and waited until the door had closed before leaning forwards to place my face in my hands, elbows resting on my knees.

"Oh my God," I murmured, horrified. "Julian!"

* * *

"You _still_ haven't broken up with him?" a disbelieving Georgie exclaimed incredulously to a fourteen-year-old Sierra. The brunette averted her eyes and, in a desperately pathetic attempt at changing the topic, asked meekly, "Won't you sign my petition? That's what I'm here for, after all…"

Enraged, Georgiana grabbed a pillow from the bed and proceeded to attack Sierra with it; she showed no clemency.

"I _cannot_ believe—that you—_three months_—Oh, poor Julian!"

"Ow! _Georgie!_"

"Cruel—uncaring—_mean_—"

"_Georgie!_"

"Poor poor Julian! He _still_ thinks the two of you are going out, you know!"

"Well, Steve and I haven't really been—"

"Three months!" the redhead squawked, enraged. "Three months, Sierra! And Julian won't even _look_ at me—because he still feels pledged to _you_—_YOU!_—When you've been seeing _someone else_ for three whole months!"

"Julian's gay!" Sierra squeaked, terrified. This statement, whilst perhaps not entirely truthful, had the desired effect; Georgie's blows momentarily halted, thus giving Sierra enough time to duck and wriggle out of range, clutching the petition tightly to her chest.

"Georgie!" she tried. "Georgie, _please_… listen?"

"No!" she scowled, red hair falling into her flashing eyes, pale cheeks flushed a brilliant red, the pillow hanging dangerously at her side. "Alright, fine—_talk._"

Sierra was hesitant; carefully, she folded and tucked the paper into her blouse, fiddled with her skirt, and looked into Georgiana's eyes.

"Georgie," she began quietly, seriously, "Georgie, let me explain: Julian and I have been going out for just over a year. We're very very close, and when we first started going out… Oh, Georgie, it was _so_ romantic…"

* * *

"_Sierra, what's wrong?" Julian asked as he entered the room, green eyes wide in concern as he took in the skinny girl sulking on the furniture. "You've been quiet and sulky all week! Is it fixable?"_

_Sierra scowled, lips thrust out in a pout, eyes narrowed in girlish petulance._

"_I'll be thirteen in two months," she wailed childishly, "and I've never had a boyfriend in my life; as a matter of fact, I haven't even been kissed yet! And I'll be thirteen!"_

_Julian blinked, pushing his auburn hair out of a confused pair of emerald eyes._

"_Surely you're young enough to wait, aren't you?"_

"_No!" Sierra replied vehemently. "No, Julian—don't you understand? I'm the school slut!"_

"…_So?"_

_Sierra leapt off of her seat and stood facing him, chin jutted out as a badge of obstinacy._

"_People at school," she said slowly, "think of me as this amazingly experienced cheap skanky whore—that's the only reason half of my friends like me, you know. And I've never even been kissed!"_

"…_Oh."_

"_Exactly!" she moaned, wringing her hands worriedly. "It's been like this for a year, and I'm worried that people will begin to suspect that I'm nothing more than a loud-mouthed virgin who repulses every single member of the opposite sex that she comes across!"_

"_But you are a loud-mouthed virgin," the boy pointed out, confused, and Sierra sighed._

"_Julian…" she began, "you are a charmingly sweet and unnaturally honest individual; as such, you simply can't comprehend the rather straightforward idea of people lying their arses off for the sole purpose of cultivating a somewhat unoriginal and vaguely controversial image."_

_Julian simply blinked, both bewildered and hurt, and watched silently as his friend turned away to stare moodily out of the window, arms wrapped about herself._

"…_Sierra?" he began timidly; when she nodded, he ploughed on, "I'll be your boyfriend… if you like."_

_There was a pause in which Sierra turned to stare at the teenager._

"_Really?" she asked, a little eagerly._

"_I-If-If you want me to…" he stammered._

_The twelve-year-old leapt upon him with a delighted squeal, legs wrapping clumsily around his torso as she hugged him tightly._

"_Oh Julian! You're the best! I love you!"_

_Julian simply smiled and patted her back awkwardly. After a time, Sierra pulled away, face alight with elation._

"_Okay!" she crooned, clapping her hands together. "Now all we need to do is sort out the pesky little details of our relationship…"_

* * *

"_So let's run through this one more time…" Sierra was saying tiredly ninety minutes later, free hand reaching out to massage her forehead whilst her right clutched Julian's pen tightly. "We were childhood sweethearts, having undergone a 'marriage' ceremony when I was seven, only to have been cruelly torn apart when school started and the both of us were sent to different same-sex schools. However, the Fire of Our Love remained fiery and undiminished—until I was eleven, that is, when tragedy struck._

"_Whilst holidaying in Venice, I was charmed off of my feet by the thirteen-year-old and roguishly handsome son of a working-class gondolier by the name of Andrea—that's the name of the gondolier's son, not the gondolier, by the way; Remember that.—Anyway, we, Andrea and I, spent a magical week roaming through the winding streets of Venice, leaping across canals the colour of liquid diamonds and dancing by moonlight to music that only we knew and shared, indeed, it was music that the moon composed in honour of our—mine and Andrea's—young and forbidden love. At the time of our parting, Andrea and I, amidst tearful farewells and the most pitiable heart-wrenching sobs, exchanged tokens of our love, cut our fingers, and made a blood oath to never forget one another. And then, when I had returned to London and saw your face, I was overcome with guilt and, in a gesture of desperate self-loathing, threw myself at your feet, and confessed to the entire incident without even the slightest prompt. Will you vouch for that, Julian?"_

_Julian had been watching his newly-acquired girlfriend in enraptured awe; he nodded his head eagerly, and asked her to continue. Smiling, Sierra placed a tiny, neat tick next to the long-winded paragraph on the sheet of paper, and read, "After my confession, we agreed to undergo a trial separation; three weeks after, our childhood marriage was annulled on the grounds that our union—"_

"—_had never been consummated," Julian completed happily. "Yes, yes, Sierra, I can remember that; I assure you I can remember that much about our relationship."_

_Sierra smiled, pleased, and continued, "Well, obviously, I was in despair at having lost the love of my life over a small meaningless fling with a brown-eyed peasant gondolier's son; I proceeded to throw myself into the arms of each and every boy who will have me—"_

"—_All the while stirring up the bitterest bile of jealousy within my breast," Julian recited, clapping his hands at having remembered their love story so well._

"_Exactly! Well done, Julian, you're remembering! See? Told you all it took was a little practice… So, we continued to dance around one another like so—"_

"—_Until today," Julian finished, eyes glittering with well-earned pride, "when, consumed by the passionate Fire of Our Love, I—"_

"—_came 'round my house—"_

"—_burst into your room—"_

"—_threw me onto my bed—"_

"—_and claimed you as my own!" Julian squealed. "Oh Sierra! Sierra! I can remember it all! All of it!"_

"_Good for you, Julian!" Sierra applauded. "See? Practice, practice, practice!" Julian simply nodded his fair head in agreement, cheeks flushed red with excitement._

"_So you'll vouch for that?" Sierra said eagerly. "Our back story, our love story—if any of my friends ask, you'll tell them that it's all true, that it did happen?"_

"_Of course!" Julian swore. "So long as you swear to tell my friends that I'm heterosexual."_

"_Oh Julian, of course I will!" Sierra vowed. "And even if you weren't my boyfriend, I'd still tell them you were straight, simply because you are straight. I've told you once, and I'll tell you again; you are, without a shadow of a doubt, the most red-blooded, masculine, heterosexual man to have ever taken me shoe shopping."_

"_Aw, you're sweet," Julian stated, patting her nose affectionately before turning to regard the pact before them. "Well, may as well make it official; where do I sign my name again?"_

"_Here," Sierra replied, pointing at a carefully-pencilled dotted line. "And here, and here, and here…"_

_Once all signatures and dates were done, Julian reached out to shake her hand, as though to seal the deal once and for all. Sierra, however, hesitated, holding back._

"_You do realise," she said slowly, "that this contract is not in any way authorised or legally binding unless it is officiated by a solicitor, don't you?"_

"…_Yeah…"_

"_And the way—I think, but I'm not sure—that contracts become official is to have some… some sort of… certified stamp, of a kind, I think… by a clerk… I don't actually know how these things work…"_

"_Oh," was all Julian would say, and proceeded to look rather disheartened as a result. Then suddenly, he brightened._

"_I have a stamp, though!"_

_Sierra's head snapped up, wide-eyed._

"_Really?"_

"_Yeah!" Julian nodded eagerly. "Wait, let me go and get it…" And he toddled over to his desk, rummaging through one of the top drawers whilst Sierra sat cross-legged on his bed and waited._

"_Got it!" he crooned, returning with a small plastic box held triumphantly up before her. "Will these work?" And he set the amateur stationary down for inspection._

_Raising an eyebrow at the container, Sierra cautiously flipped back the lid, pulling out the rubber stamp and corresponding spongy inkpad._

"_Well?" her boyfriend asked eagerly. "Will it work?"_

"…_Julian…"_

"_Yes…?"_

"_It's Barbie."_

_Julian simply blinked. "I don't follow…"_

"_It's pink," Sierra began slowly, "and the actual stamp is a butterfly-like B. For Barbie."_

"_No," Julian said smoothly, reaching out to pull the stamp from her grasp; standing, he placed one hand over his heart, like the Americans did when listening to their national anthem. "It's a B, yes… for Britannia."_

_A pause pregnant with disbelief and meaning; and then,_

"_Yeah, I think it'll suffice." And she dipped the stamp into the fuchsia inkpad and stamped it at the very bottom of the contract. For a moment, the teenager and almost-teenager both stared in awe at the glistening pink ink._

"_Well…" Sierra said at last, disbelieving, "That's it."_

"_It's done."_

_Our relationship is now… official." And she raised her eyes to look at her new boyfriend in awe, the solemnity of the situation swiftly evanescing._

"_Julian!" she squealed suddenly, leaping forward to tightly hug her boyfriend. "Oh Julian!" She kissed his cheek once, twice, three times, and pulled back to look into his eyes, her face brimming with happiness._

"_This is going to be the bestest relationship EVER!"_

* * *

There was a silence as Georgiana minced over Sierra's words, pillow now seated carelessly beside her.

"Oh. My. _God._"

"I know," Sierra said sadly. "And because our, mine and Julian's, relationship was born of such deep love, such uncontrollable passion, I honestly can't bring myself to end it. He's my first boyfriend, Georgie; my very very first."

"Boyfriend? _Boyfriend?_ He's not your boyfriend, you deluded tart!"

"And what makes you say that?"

"Well—Your relationship with Julian is so _weird_, so _abnormal_—there's no way in hell it can be described as romantic!"

Sierra pouted and widened her blue eyes in a way that a boy would have found irresistible.

"Give me one good reason why our relationship could be classed as 'weird,' Georgiana."

"Well!—_Normal people_ don't usually require—They tend _not_ to be overcome with the urge to write up a contract stating that they love and belong _only_ to the other!"

"Of course they do," Sierra contradicted pedantically. "It's more commonly known as marriage, that's all."

Georgiana rolled her eyes and threw the pillow at her friend's head; then she reached over to her bedside cabinet, where a phone waited, and beckoned Sierra closer.

"_Call him,_" she instructed firmly. "Call Julian, Sierra, and tell him that it's over between the two of you, that you've moved onto another boy, and that he should do the same—And, if you can work it subtly in, tell him I'm interested."

Sierra could only stare at her best friend in disbelief. "_Georgie…_" she whined.

"_Tell_ him," the slightly younger girl pressed firmly. "Tell him _now_, Sierra—or I will."

Sierra looked nothing short of terrified; groping desperately for something that would stall the inevitable, she reached into her blouse and pulled out the slightly crumpled pages.

"But I thought we were here to—"

"I'll sign your blasted lesbian petition in a minute!" Georgie snapped, pulling the phone out of its black cradle and waving it threateningly. "Just as soon as you tell Julian the truth."

Time slowed; Sierra hesitated. Irritated, the redhead rolled her eyes, turned slightly on the mattress, and proceeded to dial Julian's number, which she did in fact happen to know by heart.

"No!" Sierra shrieked, the paper fluttering to the floor as she dived onto the mattress. "Georgiana, please—"

Smirking, the best friend and occasional blackmailer slammed the handset back into its cradle, and shifted to the right, thereby allowing her friend to crawl up and operate the telecommunications device unaided.

"You know, he might actually be out—"

"_Sierra…_"

The fourteen-year-old scowled and, cradling the handset between ear and shoulder, sulkily reached out to dial the number. "Yes!" she yelped suddenly, overjoyed. "Oh thank God! Yes, yes, _yes_!"

"What?" Georgie asked, taken aback. "What, what, what?"

"Answer phone!"

The girl rolled her green-tinged eyes, sighed, and sat back, watching as Sierra curled up on the mattress, face alight with impatience and anticipation.

"Hi Julian!" she chirruped. "This is Sierra here! How are you, sweetie?—Um—" upon catching Georgie's furious glare "—Look, honey-bunny—"

"_Honey-bunny?_" Georgiana repeated, incredulous. "You call him 'honey-bunny?'"

Sierra flapped her hand in a silencing gesture, laughing nervously into the mouthpiece.

"Listen, turtledove," she giggled, but it was a false giggle, high and restrained, "you—you may not have noticed, but… the past three months… and Valentine's Day, I'm _so_ sorry we didn't spend the _whole day_ together… I told you that Olivia wanted me to revise, remember? …Well, that was a slight lie… I… I was actually… not feeling very well—And I think that you and I should break up!" she added in a high-pitched rush, a hand reaching up to cover her mouth in horror at her tactless and slightly unintelligible words.

"Wait!" she squeaked as though he were about to hang up, and her friend merely rolled her eyes at the pathetic tableau presented before her. "Julian! I… I didn't mean that—I… _Oh…_"

"You _did_ mean that," Georgie hissed firmly, but Sierra ignored her.

"Julian," she tried again, "I hate to use a cliché, really I do, but… It's not me, it's you—No! No, it's me, it's me, it's me!—I'm the problem, I'm the problem! I'm the one with the problem, and… you… don't deserve me. Yeah. Okay, that's it now—Bye! Oh!—and, er, I hope we can remain friends." And she dropped the handset down as though it had burned her, and proceeded to stare at the phone for an obscene amount of time.

"…Well," she said at last. "That's it then. …It's over. Oh God, it's over…" She sniffled slightly, a hand reaching up to rub at her eye, whilst Georgie could only stare at her in disbelief.

"That was pathetic; you do know that was completely and utterly pathetic, don't you?"

"It _was_ a little awkward and disjointed, I'll admit," Sierra confessed, rubbing her nose and pushing back her hair. "But there. It's done now; Julian is yours for the taking."

Moving as though dazed, Sierra leant back on the mattress, head falling into the soft folds of a white pillow. Clearly, she was in some form of mild shock.

"Georgie…" she began tentatively. "Julian is… He's the sweetest, most thoughtful, most considerate…" she trailed off, unsure of herself. "Promise me you'll treat him well, won't you?"

Georgiana's eyes softened slightly; overcome with a feeling that could best be described as tenderness, she reached out to pat Sierra's hand before sliding off of the bed and picking up what was known at their school as the 'Lesbian Petition.'

"This is for Steve, right?" she frowned, eyes scanning over the two-hundred-or-thereabouts signatures as she clambered onto her mattress to curl beside Sierra.

"Yeah; yeah… Three months of subtle and not-so-subtle insinuations that all Catholic schoolgirls are gay… I don't know, I just cracked." She gave a slight smile, pulling at her dark skirt and adjusting her flesh-coloured tights. "I may have lost my temper a week ago; and I may have enquired if there was anything that I personally could do to convince him that Catholic schoolgirls are prone to the same sexual feelings, desires, and orientations as any other normal schoolgirl…"

"And he said only a petition would convince him otherwise," Georgie completed, and Sierra nodded.

"He said it with the utmost sarcasm, of course; but I decided to hold him to his word. And now," she gestured, "here we are."

Georgie cracked a grin at this and, shaking her head in amusement, reached into her jacket pocket in search of a pen.

"You are so, so weird," she chuckled throatily. "But very, very sweet; I can see why Steve likes you."

And she signed the name _Georgiana Leigh_ with a flourish, silently noting that hers was signature 234.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** So… I've asked you before what you think of Steve; now it's Julian's turn…


	13. Rivals

**AN:** Important little plot point affixed at end of chapter. (Hopefully it'll shut up all protests of "But it's not got ANYTHING to do with PotC!")

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Twelve:** Rivals_

At first, everything seemed perfectly normal, and her life progressed as such; the Thursday and Friday passed without any incident, unless you counted how, during one Food Tech. lesson, Sierra had accidentally trapped an apron that was being worn by a girl called Sasha (who she just happened to despise) in an oven door, and how a fire hazard had subsequently occurred.

Saturday morning, however, brought with it a slightly different story; but like its predecessors, that day too began like any other Saturday morning. She made a show of poring over a Physics homework so that Olivia would be satisfied that her charge was unrelenting in her studies, then she disappeared into her room and chatted with Angie for half an hour. It wasn't until she had opened the front door that she was confronted by what appeared to be a giant teddy bear of amorous intent offering forth a bouquet of flowers. Like any other girl confronted with a life-sized teddy bear of amorous intent offering forth a bouquet of flowers, Sierra simply stared.

And then the teddy bear burst into song; a rich, mellifluous tenor voice that sang of love, youth, faith, beauty; a voice she had sung along with, had listened to, had adored all her life.

"_Julian?_" she exclaimed, flabbergasted, suddenly realising that one of the arms holding onto the toy was offering her a wrapped box of chocolates. The singing—or serenading, rather—abruptly stopped, and Julian's earnest face appeared over the bear's shoulder.

"Good morning, sugar lump!" he crooned, stepping forward and offering her a hug via the teddy bear. Taken aback, Sierra returned the embrace as best she could, taking care not to crush the roses and lilies.

Eventually, Julian pulled back, eyes bright and brimming with enthusiasm. "I got your message!" he informed her enthusiastically. "The one you left on the _telephone_."

"I can tell," she replied, accepting the chocolates and carefully loosening the ivory flowers from the doe-eyed teddy's grip. Julian followed her inside, the giant teddy bear still clutched protectively to his chest, and watched as she handed the bouquet to Olivia with the request of putting them in water.

"Um… Why don't you come upstairs, Julian? W-We obviously have a lot to talk about…"

Julian simply beamed and nodded with childlike enthusiasm, clearly believing that he had won her back, and Sierra's stomach dropped as she was suddenly overcome with dread-tinged guilt. She supposed the teddy bear, the most potent symbol of childhood romance if ever there was one, didn't help alleviate her discomfort.

* * *

"_No_," Julian was saying firmly, following Sierra down the stairs. "No, I don't accept."

"It's not a question of _accepting_ it, Julian; I've _broken up_ with you."

"But surely _I_ get a say in it!"

"In what?"

"In whether we break up or not; is it not _our_ relationship? Don't we share everything equally, make decisions equally—namely _after_ consulting one another?"

"But there's a completely separate rule for break-ups, Julian," Sierra pointed out apologetically, stepping nimbly over the doorstep and pulling her coat tighter around her. "Break-ups are universally accepted as being one of the few areas of a relationship in which one participant _alone_ can make adjustments."

"I don't care—I still demand to be consulted!" Julian wailed, stamping his foot petulantly. Then his attitude abruptly changed, and Sierra nearly fell as his arms were flung about her waist.

"_Why are you doing this?_" he sobbed into her coat, and Sierra was overcome with both guilt and embarrassment; he had fallen to his knees, clinging tightly to her hips, effectively preventing her from moving. "You're my girlfriend—my Sierra! _Sierra_; my sausage, my heffalump, my _sugar-coated celery stick_!"

"Julian, please, you're embarrassing me—"

"My malnourished, boyish-figured celery stick," he wept, and suddenly, Sierra's guilt vanished. Narrowing her eyes, she grabbed onto a nearby lamppost, and with Herculean effort, pulled herself out of his unrelenting grasp. She was certain she looked as stupid as she felt, perhaps more so, but desperate times called for desperate measures. She was profoundly glad she was wearing trousers, though.

As soon as she had both arms and legs wrapped tightly about the lamppost, like a vertical sloth, or some sort of monkey, she leapt off and onto the ground, darting out of Julian's lunging arms with a squeak of fear, and took off running down the street as fast as her skinny legs could carry her, squealing every now and again as Julian's fingers grabbed her billowing coat.

"WE BELONG TOGETHER!" he bellowed for all the world to hear as he chased her, a manic gleam in his eye. "Don't you remember last year, when we went to Camden and laughed at all the pretentious Goths moping around in their black lipstick?"

"_Julian—_" Sierra panted, cursing as she came across a busy road she would have to cross, if she wished to get to the Underground on time.

"And there was a deranged Druid called Tabitha who came from Jamaica, and she said we would be together for all of eternity!"

"I don't—"

"She did, she did!" he insisted, skidding as his prey abruptly changed direction. "Remember, she cackled and called you Susan The Happy Trotting Elflike But Tediously Normal Human Being With Abnormally Small Breasts—"

"_JULIAN!_"

"—That Will At A Later But Deliberately Unspecified Date Become Abnormally Large?" he completed regardless, releasing a girlish shriek as he nearly ran into a tree Sierra had cunningly darted around. With a quick glance, the girl ran across the road, and with an enraged but nevertheless unusual curse ("Coitus interruptus!"), Julian spun on his heel and ran back from whence he came.

"She said that in a previous life I was your lover!" he yelled at her from across the street, ignorant of the stares he was receiving from drivers and pedestrians alike. "She told us of how I was a ravishing Archduchess of Italian birth by the name of Arabellinasotema di Calatanisetta who after many a proposition from a handsomely dreadlocked but highly effeminate pirate captain—"

"For the love of God, Julian—"

"—who you stole from me out of jealousy—"

"SHUT UP!"

"But I love you!" he howled, darting pass a white van in time to see her disappear into a Tube station. Relentless, he followed her, and once in the foyer, stopped, eyes darting wildly around. She was at a barrier, fumbling with her handbag, clearly searching for a ticket she must have purchased the day before, perhaps after school; setting his jaw, Julian darted through the crowd, clawed hands outstretched, and shrieked as the machine permitted her to pass, but closed the moment he approached.

"Curse these vile barriers!" he cried, slapping the plastic indignantly.

"Excuse me, sir," the guard came over, "What seems to be the problem?"

"This barrier!" Julian cursed, pointing accusingly at the object. "They absolutely refuse to let me through, the bastards!"

"Perhaps the ticket's bent," the guard suggested, pulling the teenager away. "Let's have a look at it."

Julian blinked his green eyes in confusion.

"…Ticket?"

"You _do_ have one, don't you?"

"Well, _I_ don't personally, no," Julian confessed before spinning on his heel and pointing accusingly at Sierra, who hurriedly turned away and quickened her pace. "But _she_ does—the one with the brown hair and Gucci handbag, my girlfriend—_she_ has a ticket; therefore, _I_ have a ticket by association!"

Sierra lowered her head in shame. "Oh, God…" she muttered.

"If you don't have a ticket, I'm afraid you can't—"

"But we're in love! Sierra! SIERRA! Tell him we're in love!"

"Look, son—"

But Sierra had already leapt upon an escalator, and, more than a little terrified, leant against the moving rubber railing, mouth slightly open as she panted for breath. She reached her platform just in time to see her train pulling out, and stamped her foot as the board announced that the next was not due to arrive for another four minutes.

"Four minutes is a long time when you've got a psychotic ex on your heels," she muttered under her breath, clutching tightly to her bag and hunching up her shoulders, hoping to appear as inconspicuous as possible. The 240 seconds snailed by, and Sierra smiled in relief as she finally heard a son of London's best-loved public transportation approach.

But then she heard a familiar shout, and turned to see Julian pushing through the crowds, a pink-tinged ticket held high in the air.

"Damn."

And with this mild curse, Sierra darted to the nearest door, pushing the button repeatedly. Julian was behind her; she knew he was, she could hear his voice growing louder…

_Come on come on come on…_

The doors creaked open as though devoured by rust; forgoing etiquette, she leapt into the carriage, turned to her left, and ran towards the door, swinging it open and darting through it, allowing it to slam shut behind her. The train jolted forwards, and she cried out as her bag fell from her hands, her purse, keys, everything flying out across the floor as she tumbled to the unsteady ground—

Only to be caught in a pair of arms. Momentarily relieved, she looked up towards her saviour's face, smiling gratefully—and froze as she took in the boy's quirked eyebrow.

"So I guess we're _both_ running a little late then?" he greeted.

"Steve!" And she buried her face into his shoulder, arms reaching up for a brief hug before she pulled away, chasing after her scattered belongings.

"Oh God, oh God, I can't find my purse…" she whimpered. "Where is it?"

Steve's response was to approach an ordinary-looking girl with mousy hair, hand outstretched. She looked suspiciously at the offered fingers and promptly snarled.

"What d'you want?"

Verne simply raised an eyebrow, hand falling to rest on the back of her seat as he leant closer to her with a smirk.

"What do I want? Now that's a very interesting question. I want to be rich. Guess I wouldn't mind being famous. But what I really want is to be adored by millions, declared Supreme Emperor of the Universe, build an experimental harem on Mars filled with the world's most beautiful women, of whom I will then proceed to make lesbian clones of. But until I get to heaven, my girlfriend's purse will suffice."

"…Piss off."

Steve simply rolled his brown eyes, exasperated, and half-turning to Sierra, gave her a shrug. "Well, what can a man do?"

And he promptly plunged his hand down the sulky girl's shirt, earning a shriek of outrage.

"WHAT are you doing?" Sierra snapped, enraged, but Steve's hand continued to remain down the stranger's shirt for some time; longer than she deemed necessary. Eventually, the boy's hand emerged, purse clutched triumphantly in his fist, ignoring the look of horror that flashed on the wide-eyed girl's face, studying his prize with keen eyes.

"You know, the zip's open; there's a chance a couple of pounds fell down into your—"

The girl pushed him away, stumbling to her feet and running in the direction where a rampaging Julian possibly waited.

"Next time you plan on stealing a stranger's cash," he called lazily after her, "make sure you're wearing a bra." And he turned his gaze to find Sierra staring at him, positively scandalised.

"What?" he asked, baffled.

"You-You just…" she stumbled gracelessly before stopping, shaking her head as another, more pressing matter returned to her. "Never mind!" she brushed off, darting forward to grab his hand and drag him further down the train, pulling open the next door. "Oh!" as she felt his hand slip her money into her bag. "Um, thank you—Please hurry!"

Stephen's confusion only increased, but it was only after they'd slipped through the carriage door and were starting towards the other did he think to ask her why.

"I'd explain, only—hide me!" she yelped, fingers scrambling at the next door. Pushing her gently aside, he swung it effortlessly open, ushering her in before him, and it was only three carriages later did Steve finally persuade her to take a seat.

"Give me your coat!" she begged him. "_Please!_"

Shooting her a pointed look, he obliged, frowning as she viciously snatched it away from him, shrugging it clumsily on.

"Now _sit down_," he said firmly, shoving her into a seat and settling beside her, "And tell me—exactly what's going on?"

Sierra's response was to squeak and move towards him, grabbing hold of his shirt as she buried her head into his shoulder, and after a moment's silent reflection, he decided that an impromptu hug was better than whatever answer she could give him, and flung his arm about her shoulder in response. They remained like this for some time, and just as he was truly beginning to appreciate their closeness, the door swung open to reveal a madman in a trench coat; in one of the buttonholes lurked what appeared the remains of a red rose. Sierra remained silent, but he felt her grip tighten as the nutter stalked up behind them, head snapping left and right, scouring for something. The moment the door slammed behind the boy, his girl bolted upright.

"Quick!" she hissed. "We have to go back!"

"Who was that?"

"…No one."

He didn't believe her in the slightest.

"So why don't we stay here then?"

"NO!" she shrieked, a hand going to her mouth in embarrassment. "No, I mean… Oh Steve, please don't ask any awkward questions. Here, thanks for your coat."

He folded the black material over his arm, and followed her obediently. "What's so awkward?" he demanded, adding teasingly, "He wasn't some jealous lover you've been hiding from me, is he?"

Sierra tripped over her own booted feet, and he wrapped his arm tightly about her waist once more, pulling her firmly towards him and silently noting the way her small breasts strained upwards against her bra. Such a spectacle was quickly concealed by the twin layers of her shirt and coat.

"Can we please not talk about this?" she pleaded. "Let me go!"

He did no such thing, choosing instead to pull her closer still with an elevating jerk, sulking slightly as the coat remained obstinately shut over her chest. "It won't move…" he scowled.

"What won't move?"

"Nothing," he dismissed. "Now, what's got you running about scared?"

"I'm not scared."

"Liar."

"What did you want to move?" she demanded persistently.

"…Don't evade my question."

"Don't evade _my_ question."

"Look, if I'm going to be dragged up and down trains like a dog on a lead—but unfortunately, without the collar—" Sierra's brow furrowed in confusion at this "—I think I've the right to know _why_."

"…Well; well, Julian, the boy that's chasing me… He's been my bestes—BEST friend since we were babies, and-and—" Steve frowned, registering the childlike tone that had crept into her voice, but then decided to accept this as part of her overall charm. "And when I was seven we got married—"

She stopped as she sensed the odd look that he was giving her and, smiling embarrassedly, cleared her throat and continued, "Well, we signed—" Stopping upon realising _that_ would sound even stupider. In a final attempt at maturity, she whispered, "We were childhood sweethearts, and-and now he's a little obsessed with me…"

"A little?"

"A little bit… Put me down now, please."

He obliged, following her panicked steps obediently, interrogating all the while.

"Oh, so he's not your ex then?"

"Sorry?"

"The boy you cancelled on to meet me on our first date," he reminded, and she bit her lip. "That was someone else?"

Sierra was uncertain of how to reply; she suppose she could deny such charges, as whilst Julian had always been a little… mad, she had never witnessed such displays of lunacy as was shown today, so in a sense he was an _entirely_ different person…

"You never broke up with him, did you?" Steve's voice drawled, and Sierra's stomach twisted. "I'm not accusing you," he added as the carriage slowed to a stop. "No honey, we're meant to get off next—"

"I DON'T CARE!" she exploded, and he flinched. "Steve… I just want to escape…" And she dragged him towards the door regardless of his feelings.

_Teenagers,_ he thought, irritated as he pulled her to a stop. "You do realise that we won't be able to get pass the barriers, don't you? _Sit down._"

"Only at the other end of the train!" she stipulated.

He rolled his eyes. "If it'll make you happy. By the way, I think you're insane."

She could only glare at him.

* * *

The escape from the train was without significant incidence, as was their journey up the street and into a coffee shop, where Sierra darted into the bathroom to fuss over her appearance, certain as she was that the two of them were no longer in danger.

That was why she didn't object to a window seat, which proved to be the downfall of them all, for who should suddenly lunge at the shatter-proof glass, handsome face twisted in a snarl as he hurled inaudible obscenities?

"So!" Julian exclaimed, eyes falling on the reclining Steve moments after he had burst through the front door and stalked towards the youthful couple. "So this is the tall, lightly-muscled, chocolate-eyed, working-class _prat_ you've left me for!"

"Julian!" Sierra cried, pulling at his arm. "Please, this is a public place!"

"That doesn't matter to me!" Julian screeched, attempting to gouge Stephen's eyes out and failing miserably. "In my indignant rage of righteous anger born out of the unfair dissolution of a long-lasting and heterosexual relationship, I care not for the thoughts of others!"

Steve shifted in his seat slightly, looking pass the clawing fingers to glance at Sierra and comment pleasantly, "Gay, is he?"

"Um…"

"Let me have him!"

"Gay," Steve concluded, nodding sagely.

"Julian! We can talk about this! Please! Let's discuss this in a civilised manner."

"I cannot discuss such a thing in a civilised manner, for I am a heterosexual male who has just lost his first girlfriend! Have at you, coward!"

"Julian!" Sierra pleaded, forcing him down into a chair and waving away a barista. "No, no, really, everything's fine… Yes, yes, he's under control, thank you…"

It took fifteen minutes and a delicate latte for Julian to actually calm down enough to glare disparagingly at Sierra's new beau in a stoic silence; the girl herself sat between the two boys, wringing her hands and attempting to initiate friendly conversations, whilst Steve leant lazily back in his chair, examining Julian with a keen and intense interest.

Presently, the spurned lover turned in his seat to look at Sierra, ignorant of the whipped cream decorating the tip of his nose.

"Why?" he said finally. "Why him? Why not me?"

"Julian—"

"Does he have a better figure than me?" "he brazenly bombarded. "What, I suppose that with spending all his days loading and unloading crates at the docks for a mere ha'penny is bound to have its advantages. Disrobe, sirrah!"

"Medieval gay," was all Steve would say.

"Julian!" Sierra snapped, standing and effectively shielding her boyfriend from her ex's view whilst she glared down at the hysterical male. "That is enough! Really! I had my own reasons for leaving you, and they had nothing to do with Stephen's biceps! So there is absolutely no point asking him to _disrobe_; and besides, Steve isn't some sort of shameless exhibitionist who would strip in public just because—"

She was abruptly cut off by a white T-shirt landing on her shoulder. There was a pause as she delicately picked the garment off, folded it over her arm, and turned to see an unashamedly shirtless Steve, still casually seated, a thumb tucked into his belt.

"Shall I continue?"

"What?—No!"

He gave Sierra a sidelong glance, amused.

"I wasn't talking to _you_, darling," he drawled, looking at Julian pointedly. The poor boy was looking quite horrified now, but was spared from answering by the reappearance of the barista, who politely but firmly told the trio to leave.

"Unbelievable!" Sierra raged as she watched Steve button his coat. On seeing the little effect this had on him, she directed her furious glare to Julian, who flinched and lowered his head, temporarily shamed.

_Temporarily_ shamed.

"We belong together!" he persisted, moving towards her, but was prevented from going further by Stephen, who had to physically hold him back. "Look, look, Sierra!" and he pulled out a slip of paper with a flourish.

Sierra's heart leapt, and she stumbled back, earning a quizzical look from her _current_ boyfriend.

_Oh no,_ she thought, horrified. _Oh no, no, no…_

"You alright, love?" Steve queried, concerned. "You're looking a little pale…"

"I-I'm fine," she said, watching an uncharacteristically evil smirk spread over Julian's face as he caught her eye.

"_This,_" he said smarmily to Stephen, "is our marriage contract."

For a moment, Sierra simply stared at Steve's dumbfounded expression, and closed her eyes, burying her face into her hands. A somewhat repressed snigger had her straightening again, and she watched with cheeks flushing in indignation as Steve pulled the page gently out of Julian's hand, attempting to smother the amused grin that threatened to break out as he perused the document.

"It seems to me," he said at last to the married couple awaiting the verdict, "that although you are… married," he was able to cough out between abrupt guffaws, "you—your clerk forgot to specify the period of time in which this marriage would be considered valid."

Julian and Sierra simply blinked and stared, first at one another, then at Steve.

"Beg pardon?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"_Well,_" he said slowly, "in most wedding ceremonies, there tends to be the tiny, niggling phrase of ''til death do us part' ensconced somewhere—a clause which is conspicuous only by its absence in here."

Horror dawned over Julian's pleasant features as the full implications of this mild but clearly significant mistake sunk in; to make matters worse, his wife rounded upon him, eyes narrowed in fury.

"You forgot our wedding vows?" she spat, disgusted. "How typical of men."

Julian looked from one conspirator to the other, unable, unwilling to believe… to accept… Why, it just couldn't be true!

"W-W-We said that part… in front of a Catholic priest," he sputtered, and Steve snorted.

"Somehow, I doubt that."

Sierra was silent, watching guiltily as Steve prepared himself for the kill whilst Julian, helpless as a fawn, slowly backed away.

"Julian!" she yelped just as Stephen was opening his mouth. "Julian… snuggle-bunny… come here," she gestured, ignoring how Steve had turned to her to incredulously mouth the words _snuggle-bunny?_

The boy shoved his hands in his pockets and took a tiny step forward, green eyes downcast.

"Closer," Sierra beckoned encouragingly; when finally in range, she reached up and flung her arms about his neck in a tight hug, burying her face into his shoulder. Steve quirked an eyebrow at this, but refrained from comment.

"I'm sorry," she murmured to him. "I shouldn't have left that message on your phone… And I should have been more sensitive about the whole thing. And I should have told you it was all Steve's fault."

"What?"

"WHAT?"

Still wrapped about her ex, Sierra turned and fixed her current beau with a steely glare.

"Well, this _is_ all your doing," she explained calmly. "If you hadn't taken my purse—"

"He took _what_?" Julian interjected.

"Only as a means to an end," Steve explained cryptically with a nod. "Her end."

"He did it only so he could have an excuse to talk to me," Sierra explained offhandedly, turning to look up at Julian affectionately. "And then, through a mixture of mulish persistence and roguish charm, I conceded to partaking in a relationship on purely experimental grounds."

Both Steve and Julian were shooting her odd looks; Sierra gave the latter a kiss, and the former a thin smile.

"I love you," she said simply to Julian. "You and I both know that we care deeply for one another. But whether our feelings are romantic or not is debatable, don't you agree?"

Julian was silent, looking intensely down at her; Stephen could have retched, keeled over and died, and neither would have noticed.

"I… I _think_ my feelings are romantic," he said slowly, and Steve's hand unthinkingly strayed to his pocket, where a flick-knife lay concealed, but stopped, thinking better of it.

"And I don't thin—_know_ if mine are," she sidestepped. Her eyes returned to Steve, wide with apprehension. "You're going to break up with me now, aren't you?"

The eldest of the three snorted, shaking his head in amusement.

"Sweetheart, he's gay."

"Am not!" Julian squeaked indignantly, pulling Sierra protectively closer. "I _am not_ gay, and I have the fashion magazines and colour co-ordinated wardrobe to prove it!"

Stephen could only stare at the pair, his brown eyes eventually focusing on Sierra.

"_This_ is my rival for your love?"

"That's right," Sierra purred affectionately, looking from one boy to the other in adoration.

Verne burst out laughing, but quickly sobered at the disapproving glares he received. "Sorry," he apologised, tongue planted firmly in cheek. The adoring smile slowly faded from Sierra's face as she turned her attention back to her ex.

"Julian," she began. "Much as I would love to continue our relationship, I honestly think that I'd like to see how things go with Steve."

"But—"

"Don't get me wrong," Sierra said quickly. "I mean, I would love so, so much to be with you, now and always, but… Oh, Julian," she sighed at the heartbroken expression she received. "H-How about," she began anew, looking uncertainly from Verne to Clancy and back again, "the three of us just… remain friends?"

Both boys looked utterly bewildered at the very suggestion. "…Friends?" Julian asked sceptically, and Sierra nodded eagerly, pulling herself out of Julian's grasp and dragging him a little closer to Steve.

"Yeah," she affirmed. "I mean, that's practically all we are, isn't it, Stephen?"

"Um, _no_."

"Well, we are _now_," Sierra said firmly, and shoved Julian's fingers into Steve's darker palm. "Shake and make up."

After yet another exchange of glances—for Julian, one of open hostility; for Steve, something best described as polite curiosity—the two clasped their hands a little tighter, and abruptly released one another. Sierra merely rolled her eyes.

"I'm sensing a little tension and hostility between the two of you," she commented needlessly as she grabbed each companion by the wrist and proceeded to drag them down the street. "And I feel that I'm the cause of it… And I think that in order to relieve it, the two of you need to bond. And to do that…" And it was only then that the two boys realised she was slowly backing away, clutching her coat tightly as she did so. "To do that, I think you need to spend some time together. Without me."

"What? But I'll kill him!"

Julian squeaked at this proclamation, and lunged for Sierra, who swiftly stepped away.

"Steve won't _really_ kill you, sugar lump."

"Yes he will…" Julian whimpered. "Heffalump, I don't want to get killed!"

Sierra looked up from the prostrate Julian lying at her feet to give Steve a smile and an apologetic shrug.

"Take care of him, won't you?"

"…Do I have to?"

"If you still want a chance with me," she replied, and he narrowed his eyes at her.

"That's emotional blackmail," he resisted. "Very damaging to long-established relationships, much less a budding one like our own."

"Compromise, Stephen; after all, isn't that what relationships are all about?" Sierra asked sweetly. "Bye-bye, Julian; I love you," and she reached down and patted his golden-red head.

She said no such thing to Verne, and deliberately made no gesture other than a friendly and platonic wave; as a direct consequence, Steve had to consciously resist the urge to kick his 'rival.'

"Come on," he said gruffly, grabbing a fistful of Julian's hair and tugging. "Up you get."

Reluctantly, Julian clambered up (using Steve as a rudimentary ladder) to stand before him, silently examining his clothes and dusting off his coat.

"Well," he said at last, surveying Steve critically, "that was perfect, don't you think?"

The darker boy was abruptly taken aback at what appeared to be a spontaneous change in character; what's more, he could see that Julian was openly smirking, clearly pleased with himself.

"Christ," he said at last, looking down at Julian in surprise. "Was all of that—the twenty-minute chase, the scene in the coffee-shop, the almost-tears—was all that just an _act_?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call it an _act_, per se," Julian answered, pulling open a compact mirror and adjusting his hair as was necessary. "Merely improvised tactics essential in pursuing and preserving the main objective as a matter of course."

"…So what you're trying to say is that you shamelessly exploited and manipulated what I can only imagine to be Sierra's innate motherly instincts for your own selfish and unjustifiable ends?"

Julian snapped the mirror shut, placed it carefully into his pocket, looked into Steve's brown eyes, and with a slightly mischievous smile, sagely replied,

"The pheasant has no agenda."

Then he placed both hands in his pockets and walked off, whistling a merry tune whilst Steve simply watched him disbelievingly before following.

"I find it incredibly offensive that you would arrogantly allow yourself to believe that in order to keep her I must resort to subterfuge and temper tantrums."

"But you _did_ resort to subterfuge and temper tantrums."

"Ah, but only to ensure that the outcome is satisfactory to all likable parties involved," Julian pointed out. "She'll pick me in the end; you and I both know she will."

"And what makes you so sure?" Steve challenged.

"_Well,_" Julian began, "not only do I have a longer relationship built on stronger foundations than teenaged infatuation and unconscious rebellion, but I also have the approval of her mother, her father, her brother, her sister, her uncle, her aunt, her uncle's harem, her guardian, her friends, her horse, her tailor, her confessor, her legitimate cousins, her illegitimate cousins, their goldfish, _and_, most importantly of all…" And he stopped suddenly in his tracks, causing Steve to stumble clumsily back as he looked manically up at him.

"I have the approval of the Family Ghost."

Steve could only look upon him with raised eyebrows.

"Oh do you now?"

"You don't believe me?" Julian tutted. "Ugh, commoners these days." And he turned around and promptly continued his gleeful gait. Naturally, Steve followed.

"And how do you know that the Ghost _approves_ of you?"

"Because I only ever got a splinter," Julian replied, halting suddenly and sticking out his foot on the pretext of showing to Steve. "In the big toe, see? When I was little. Other boys that were not of direct blood relation to Sierra either irredeemably embarrassed themselves in front of her or ended up very very hurt—but not fatally or grievously so, of course," he added hastily. "Fare thee well, sirrah."

And he continued his carefree stroll as though these words would prove satisfactory, and Stephen Verne would henceforth abandon hope and go away.

Now there's an optimist if ever there was one.

"This family ghost," Verne pestered belligerently, deliberately leaving ambiguous whether he believed in such things or no, "Is it male or female?"

Golden lashes fluttered rather prettily as Julian blinked in surprise. "Um, male I think…"

"Then how do you know," Steve continued slyly, "that the Ghost isn't obsessively in love with Sierra, wants her all to himself, and only allowed you to stick around so as to ward off more, ah… _serious_ competition?"

Julian was so taken aback by this theory that he immediately stopped in his tracks, and promptly tripped over a loose paving stone; clearly, he had never before considered this scenario, judging by how he turned clumsily around to glare at the cruelly smiling Stephen, crossed his arms, stuck out his tongue, and blew a raspberry.

"I think my knowledge of _my_ girlfriend's ghost fast surpasses your own, Stephen," he superciliously sniffed.

"But what if, though?" Steve persisted, grabbing hold of Julian's sleeve just as he was about to scarper. "What if this ghost is _in love_ with Sierra? I mean, what chance could either of us _really_ have against a supernatural entity of paranormal energy, hmm?"

Julian's expression was utterly heartbreaking, and in a moment of compassion, Steve silently backed down.

"This ghost of yours," he asked in a slightly gentler voice, "who is he?"

"What? How should I know? It's not _my_ family ghost."

"So you're saying he doesn't have a name? Seems like a pretty impersonal family ghost to me."

"H-He does have a name…" Julian insisted slowly. "Only it's been so long since I've last heard of him that…" He trailed off, forehead furrowed endearingly, whilst Steve merely looked on in polite interest before giving up and consulting his watch.

"Jack," he said after what seemed (to Steve) to be three long minutes.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

"Jack," Julian repeated. "I'm not sure if that's his real name or not, but Sierra always called the Family Ghost 'Jack.'"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** See? All the Steve/Sierra stuff is _completely_ relevant to Pirates of the Caribbean…


	14. Kiss

**AN:** A quick note on the actual structure of this fanfic: Whilst I'm sure that you're all very eager to find out more about the "family ghost," I'm afraid that specific story won't really be explained for a while longer. You see, for the ghost's story to be fully told, Steve's character has to encounter the person who knows the story better than anyone; and for Steve to do that, certain events have to transpire which will lead to him encountering Sierra's un—this non-specific person who knows all and was bitten by a dolphin because of it. Because the plot taking place in the eighteenth century is actually pretty fast-moving, I thought that NOW would be the best time to get most of the "modern" story over and done with, and then leave it alone until the end when both plots come together. (Because they DO come together, and in a most predictable and uninventive way.)

If you've read though all that instead of skipping to the actual chapter, well done. If you haven't, please do so; even if it's AFTER you've read this chapter.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirteen:** Kiss_

To say that Sierra did not remember much of the "family ghost" would be a gross understatement: from the age of twelve, she had dismissed Jack as being nothing more than the imaginary friend of a lonely child. And she had been an exceptionally lonely child; shy and reserved and considerably lacking in any social skills that would win her friendship amongst her peers. The persona she had fashioned for herself—that of something greatly resembling a child prostitute—was the façade she had fabricated in order to sever her ties with her imaginary friend and thus leave her free to pursue companionship with others. She had done this for fear that she was abnormal; after all, what sort of twelve-year-old still possessed an imaginary friend?

Much less an imaginary friend for whom her feelings were, she had at that age come to realise, decidedly of a romantic nature. No, that wouldn't do at all; how could she, a clever, logical girl like her, nay, a _twelve-year-old_ no less, be in love with a man who wasn't even real? Never mind that he was almost obnoxiously handsome. (And why wouldn't he be? She had a vague suspicion that she had subconsciously modelled his appearance on the actor Johnny Depp.)

Around the age of thirteen—just after, coincidentally enough, she had "married" Julian—Sierra, having successfully displaced her fascination for her false friend with an unhealthy obsession for a certain Hollywood actor she had no intention of actually meeting, had forgotten altogether about the man who called himself Jack. (Well actually, she had forcefully repressed all memories of him with such success she ought to be referred to a psychologist for intensive study, but never mind that.) And it had actually been easier for her than one would have thought. Perhaps it helped that the name had been so normal; true, Sierra had only ever encountered a total of three Jacks in her childhood, but all in all it had been easy for the name to lose whatever significance it may have once held.

And then, as though to quell any remaining doubts that her romantic liaisons were less than normal, Steve had entered the picture.

* * *

He hadn't _meant_ to be late; his original plan had been to pick his car up in the morning, drive it slowly through the perpetual rush hour back to his flat, and then make his way to Sierra's school. However, there was apparently a flu or something of the kind that had infected half of the mechanics, leaving the remaining employees to toil and labour in the garage unaided. So if anyone was to be blamed for his wanting punctuality, it was _them_. Or the virus that caused the flu; he didn't care who took the bullet, so long as it wasn't _him_.

_Bugger,_ he thought irritably, looking in vain for a sign of his girlfriend through the unrelenting sheets of arctic rain. A glance at his watch told him that it was five minutes past four; thirty-five minutes after they had agreed to meet. Even as he thought it, he caught a glimpse of a dark-haired girl, dressed in nothing more than a white shirt and black skirt; no coat or any other form of outerwear. The boy smiled in relief, and glanced at the inclement weather outside.

"Sierra!" he called, his window screeching jerkily down; there seemed little point in having the both of them getting wet. "Sierra!"

She paused for a moment, her arms wrapped protectively about her torso. And then, quite childishly, she turned and continued in her stroll, making a point of ignoring him.

_For God's sake,_ he thought irritably, shifting gears and trailing after her, like a curious puppy.

"I'm only a little late," he attempted unsuccessfully to pacify.

"Hmph!" he thought she huffed.

"It wasn't _my_ fault," he stated honestly; and then, clearly thinking that this in itself constituted as an apology, added, "Come on love, get in the car."

That made her pause; she turned to look at him in disbelief, her eyes scanning the car, apathetic.

"When did you get that?" she asked.

"This morning; _well_, this afternoon."

"And that was why you're late, is it?"

"Partly; there's the traffic I suggest you take into consideration before condemning me."

"The _traffic_?" she laughed derisively. "There's no traffic in Northwood."

"There is in Stepney."

"You _drove_ here from Stepney?"

"I was running late!" he reminded her.

"That's not the point!" she snapped, apparently ignorant of the droplet hanging precariously off of the tip of her nose. He watched as it quivered, momentarily suspended for a second or two more, before gravity took hold, and it vanished, sliding down her upper lip and disappearing into the unexplored cavern of her mouth.

"—even my father would rather I mingle with the _hoi polloi_ on public transport than get chauffeured around in a _car_!"

"…What?"

The girl paused, infuriated; her blue eyes then narrowed and, shrugging her bag more securely onto her shoulder, she turned and left with an "I don't want to talk to you right now," thrown coldly over her shoulder. He had to forcibly restrain himself from asking if she had her period.

"Oh come _on_," he continued, undeterred, following her casually in his newly-acquired car. "If you don't want to spend the afternoon with me, that's fine, but at least let me give you a lift."

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're sixteen; it's illegal to drive when you're sixteen. Do you even _have_ a provisional licence?"

"Well of course I—um—I'll send off for one tomorrow morning—"

"Oh, _Steve_!"

"—_Now_ will you get into the car?"

"No! I'm very annoyed with you at the moment. Besides, I'm almost certain you're going to crash."

"And why the lacking faith in my flawless motoring abilities?"

"Well if your attention span is such it barely allows you to follow a short conversation, I shudder to think of where your eyes will wander when on the road."

…Ah; of course—maidenly modesty. (Not to mention inbred prudery.)

"You can't really blame me for staring at you," he attempted to flatter, noting that her blouse was by now extremely wet. In a few minutes it'll be clinging to her skin; the thought alone actually tempted him to prolong the trifling spat.

"We both know you weren't staring at _me_," she scoffed. "Now go away."

"Who else would I have been staring at? There's only y—" His words were cut off as a girl that could best be described as a blonde Amazon strolled suddenly pass. At first, the most he could make out was a pair of long legs, nicely tanned, the bare feet encased in black pumps. The short skirt that disappeared under her white coat told him that she was also a student at Sierra's school, albeit a few years older than Sierra herself. A flash of sun-coloured hair fluttered beneath her umbrella, and after a few paces, she turned to flash him a brilliant smile, revealing a face lovelier than any angel's. A few seconds later, and she had disappeared, never to be seen again.

"…Oh," he said at last, shaking his head and looking back up at Sierra. "Sweetheart, I honestly harbour no interest in your… colleague. She doesn't happen to have a sister, does she?"

This attempt at light-heartedness clearly didn't go down too well; Sierra promptly turned away from him and continued in her walk—which happened to be in the same direction as the girl's, he noted.

"Sierra!" he called, exasperated, whilst secretly wondering why she was so upset. Alright, so he had been distracted by the fair-haired female—but to give credit where it's due, he wouldn't have noticed her had Sierra not (silently) pointed her out beforehand. "For God's sake…" he groaned as she abruptly ducked down what must have been a hidden alley. Looking around, he decided to risk parking on a double yellow line—as if the wardens would come out in this weather anyway!—and, locking the door, hurried after her.

It took fifteen minutes of running about in the glacial rain before he grudgingly accepted that he'd all but lost her; as he trudged disappointedly back to his car, he couldn't help but wonder why she was suddenly so upset. They'd known each other for six annoyingly chaste months, during which Sierra had been unwilling to relinquish even a single kiss. A _kiss_; they hadn't even kissed! There had been times when he had come close to begging her for _just_ a kiss—that was _all_—and each and every time he had been coyly rebuffed. Of course, he knew exactly what she was up to; by denying him a kiss, she was effectively denying any other amorous favour he may have the mind to ask for. This abstinence of hers also had a second, more valuable effect; sex had long since been cast off of his agenda, thus ensuring her virtue remained intact (for the moment, at any rate).

But that wasn't to say that the most they ever did was hold hands. Of course not!—And that was the oddest thing. Take last week, for example, when he had been working at the Intrepid Fox. She had snuck into the kitchens about half nine, and he had, up until that point, been cleaning the dishes. He'd heard her come in, but hadn't paid any attention; it could have been Andy or Sam, for all he cared, and he wasn't exactly on speaking terms with either of them. But then a pair of arms had curled about his waist, and a kiss was placed on his neck; and then he heard Sierra's voice playfully ask him if he'd missed her.

"_As always,"_ he remembered replying, wiping his hands on his trousers before placing them briefly over Sierra's.

"_Good,"_ she had murmured, and continued to nuzzle his neck. He'd leant his head back and made history by being the first male that had tried his hand at the supposedly female art of multitasking; in this case, clean a dish _and_ enjoy his girlfriend's caresses. Even when her hands had brushed against the front of his jeans before slipping inside, he was still able to rinse off a glass. But then she had reached up and whispered something that, whilst not incredibly obscene, was shocking enough to hear from her supposedly inexperienced lips: He then knocked over a mercifully small pile of dishes, and had to immediately push a giggling Sierra under a table.

"_Steve,"_ she had whined, "_why do I have to hide?"_

"_Because the last time I had sex during working hours,"_ he replied, "_the landlord threatened to fire me on the grounds that sexual intercourse in the kitchen violated basic Health and Safety laws, even if I_ did _ejaculate inside her."_

"_Oh, _Stephen! _That is absolutely the most disgusting thing—"_

And then Ian had burst in to rebuke him for his clumsiness.

The teenager smirked to himself, pulling up his coat; although nothing more had occurred that evening, he knew that he wouldn't be forgetting that particular night in a hurry. Mainly because it had been that exact moment he had realised—or rather, the experience had _confirmed_—that he was in love with her.

Even if they hadn't kissed.

Glancing up from his wet shoes, he blinked and allowed a smile to pass across his lips: Sierra, it seemed, had doubled back, and was now walking towards the alleyway she had originally scarpered up of. He quickened his pace, but made certain to remain at a far enough distance, wryly noting that she wasn't even glancing over her shoulder. Only when she had ducked down the passage did he begin to jog.

The downpour was appallingly unrelenting; his clothes had long since been soaked. But he was grateful for the monsoon-like weather, as the rainfall helped to mask the thudding of his feet until he was barely five feet away from her; until he was too close for her to outrun him. She had then slowed her steps, had stopped, had turned around. An extra seven seconds to use to his advantage.

"You _followed_ me?"

"You knew I would," he brushed off, darting forward and grabbing her arms to stop her from running away again. It was only then that he realised that she had been crying—and he knew her well enough to know that it wasn't just about the blonde. She wasn't that pathetic.

"Sweetheart," he said gently, "what's the matter?"

She bit her lip, and defiantly raised her chin.

"You were late."

"And I'm sorry."

This simple comment apparently caught her off guard; her mouth opened and closed, her forehead furrowed, and her eyes darted about her, as though searching for inspiration.

_She doesn't want to tell me,_ he thought grimly. Fair enough; she had every right to privacy. God knows there were a few things that _he_ didn't want to tell _her_.

"It's alright," he whispered, placing a kiss on her forehead and pulling her into a hug. "Cry if you want to. I won't ask any questions."

There was a thud that was Sierra dropping her bag; her arms reached up to wrap about his neck, and she buried her face into his shoulder.

"It-It's _nothing_, really," she gibbered. "It's small. It's petty. It's pathetic. But it's still hurtful; I'm still hurt. By it. …I'm sorry, but I honestly don't feel like I can—like I can—"

"Tell me?" he guessed, and felt her nodding miserably. "It's alright. You don't have to. I'm here for you."

This, of course, was nothing more than manipulative reverse psychology, and within minutes, words were pouring out of Sierra's mouth in an incoherent flood of language. Something about her friends; and something about her sister; and something about Steve himself. He was no fool; within minutes, he had guessed the general gist, and was clasping her tighter than ever.

"I love you," he reassured her. "You know I love you."

"I _know_ that," she babbled. "I know that you do—but when I heard—and Christa—" Her sobs overpowered her words; suddenly tired, she fell against him, allowing herself to be weak, to be vulnerable. She felt him pull his arms away, but she needn't have panicked; it was only to pull his coat around the both of them. She smiled slightly at the gesture, remembering Angie's words of warning: _Rebel without a coat._ It had seemed so long ago, and she could scarcely believe that the boy who had robbed her of her purse and later attempted to seduce her was the same one that was holding her so tenderly now.

But then again, was it really so surprising? Many people took her at face value, took in her shamelessly promiscuous façade; no one, as far as she was aware, could see the introverted virgin beneath. Perhaps Steve was playing a similar game, albeit with slightly different rules. Perhaps that was why they were so attracted to one another; because she did love his duality, his ability to slip from smug Don Juan to—well, to constant Ophelia. Sierra bit back a smile; she didn't think Steve would enjoy being compared to a fictional woman who drowned herself in a river for want of love.

Neither of the couple were certain of how long they stood there, clinging to one another, any more than they knew exactly who had initiated that first kiss. Steve would later claim that it was Sierra who had slowly pulled away; Sierra would maintain that she felt Steve's fingers stroking her cheek, silently urging her to move her head back. What they both agreed on was that their lips had moved closer in unrehearsed synchronicity; and, whilst it was a very chaste kiss, even by a Puritan's standards, it was also an incredibly powerful one.

For Sierra, this was her first kiss; Julian had always fainted (supposedly from delight) every time she had given him a quick peck on the cheek; she was afraid she'd send him into a cardiac arrest if she tried anything more. This in itself was reason enough for her to enjoy it. And as for Steve; well, he had actually gotten to _know_ Sierra before kissing her, had fallen in love with her; and if various sex acts were heightened when performed within a close, intimate relationship, then surely the same rule applied to kisses? Sexual intimacy, he realised as he pulled her closer, was overrated; he'd been with many girls, and he hadn't felt half as close to any of them as he now felt to Sierra. (And besides—how did that saying go?—_Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder._)

When the pair eventually broke apart, Sierra couldn't help the small smile hovering on her lips; a reaction that did not escape the notice of her boyfriend.

"Did you like that?" he queried, in all innocence; she simply narrowed her eyes and gave his arm a playful swat.

"Steve," she began quietly, in all seriousness, "Steve… Can you take me home now?"

The bubble of joy that had been building up inside his chest promptly deflated, but he hid it well.

"Sure; I mean, I don't actually know where you live, but…"

"No; n-no, Steve," she interrupted quietly, "I meant—could you take me to _your_ home?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "_My_ home?"

"Just for a little while," she hurried to clarify. "I-I mean, I might want to—to consider spending the night, but only if—you know…"

He didn't know, but he could make an educated guess.

"I'd be delighted to have you," he assured her, adding quickly, "As my guest." just in case she _wasn't_ offering her virginity to him on a silver platter. "But, um—I _do_ live in a one-bedroom flat…"

"It's alright," she smiled softly up at him. "I'm sure you wouldn't mind sleeping on the couch."

* * *

In the end, it had been _Steve_ who had suggested they abstained from any further physical intimacy.

"You're too shy," he'd explained gently to her, pulling the sheet over her half-naked body. "You're not ready; I once dated a girl I'd actually quite liked, but she dumped me 'cause she felt that I'd pressured her into sex—I don't want to repeat the same mistake with you." Sierra had found it odd that he hadn't incorporated the fact that sex with a fourteen-year-old girl was illegal into his argument, but didn't dwell on it.

Naturally, she had protested against the whole idea, albeit half-heartedly; secretly, she was glad to hang on to her virginity for a little while longer. She was also pleased to see that Steve was attempting to meet her halfway; he'd taken her back to his flat, where he lived alone, having moved out from under his mother's roof seven months ago—Sierra noted the way his face had closed when he'd mentioned this, as though he had no inclination to discuss his family's history, but had decided that it would be inconsiderate to pry; after all, he had been perfectly willing to let her cry in his arms without asking as to why.

The flat itself was a small little square, and plainly decorated, bordering Spartan, but despite this, Sierra couldn't help but notice how everything was clean and organised. She was slowly beginning to realise that she actually knew very little about him, besides the fact that she was the first heterosexual girl he had succeeded in having something resembling a proper relationship with. Which was why, after a brief shower, she had sat down in front of his CD collection dressed in only a borrowed shirt and pair of jeans, her own clothes hanging off of a radiator, and promptly began flicking through them.

At that very moment, she was attempting to come to terms with the fact that the musical taste of the man she loved left a lot to be desired.

"New Order, The Smiths, Joy Division, the Sex Pistols, Smashing Pumpkins, the Rolling Stones… Steve?" she called to him, glancing at the bathroom door—he'd left it open, just in case she changed her mind about joining him in the shower, he had winked. "Steve, I'm curious—Do you listen to anything recorded _after_ 1989?"

"I wonder," he called back over the sound of water pattering against the tiles, "if I ought to justify my musical inclinations to a girl who doesn't own anything composed after 1901?"

"I own a recording of _Madame Butterfly._"

"That doesn't count!"

She pouted, knotting the black shirt above her navel.

"That's quite hurtful; I think you ought to kiss me better."

"Come join me and I will."

She'd hesitated, of course, before deciding that a man who had told her that he valued their emotional relationship enough to turn down sex wasn't about to change his opinion in any hurry, and obeyed. That being said, she did make certain to keep her gaze above his neck. _Well_, his shoulders. No? Alright, above his nipples; _fine_, his navel—Oh, stop it, Sierra!—His hips, then; above his hi—

"Oh my God!"

She heard Steve's amused chuckle as she abruptly turned away, staring determinedly at the wall.

* * *

"…because I _have_ seen one before," Sierra was still gibbering embarrassedly several hours later. "I mean, this _is_ 19—"

"In what context?" Steve interrupted, leaning against the headrest.

Yet another wave of embarrassment washed over her already crimson cheeks.

"Um—i-in Biology, an—and, um—In tutorial, when we were being taught about—you know—human reproduction…"

Steve's brow furrowed at her words. "Aren't your tutors—your personal tutors, I mean—aren't they all… nuns?"

"…Yes…" she answered wearily.

"So they're not exactly—_qualified_, are they? To discuss sex and birth and pregnancy, I mean. I've a feeling they've glossed over contraception…"

"Now you sound like Olivia," she sighed.

"Olivia?" he pounced; this wasn't a name he had heard before.

"Olivia; my… She used to be my nanny; now she's my guardian."

"And what did she have to say about the whole matter?"

Sierra shifted nervously, "Well, she… took it upon herself to instruct me on the entire matter…"

* * *

"Oh for God's sake, Sierra!" Olivia snapped. "Stop crying; you're not six anymore!"

"I—" Sierra whimpered. "I don't want to _learn_ anymore! And besides, it-it's not appropriate…"

"Don't be such a baby!" Olivia had ordered mercilessly. "You're ten years old! An entirely appropriate age to examine pickled testicles."

Sierra had wailed and stubbornly placed her hands over her terrified eyes; this action caused the nanny's heart to melt with a tenderness that can only come of caring for a child from the cradle onwards.

"Sierra," she said gently, attempting a different approach. "Oh come now Sierra, please don't cry… Look, it's not as if I'm asking you to put your hand in the jar and feel them (yet)—"

* * *

"Wait a minute," Steve interrupted, sitting up straight and viewing her with open hostility. "Are you telling me that at the age of ten your nanny—guardian, whatever—whipped out a jar of pickled _human_ testicles and asked you to _put your hand in it_?"

Sierra shifted nervously. "It wasn't a jar of _testicles_, specifically," she corrected uncomfortably. "There was a… penis in there as well."

The boy could only stare at her in mute horror.

"…I _think_," he said at last, "I think I now know why you're so… I mean, now I understand your reaction. And I also think that it would be immoral and wrong to send you back to that woman. Look, we're outside your house now; so why don't you just nip in, grab an armful of belongings, and we'll run away to the West Country together?"

"Maybe next weekend," Sierra brushed off, straightening her (though technically Steve's) shirt and leaning closer to give him a kiss. He had asked her to stay over, of course, deliberately emphasising the completely nonsexual aspect of his invitation:

"_You can call home and say you're sleeping over a friend's,"_ he had suggested, his fingers curling around her mostly-dried hair. "_Ask Georgie or whoever to cover for you until tomorrow…"_

"_I _could_, I suppose,"_ she allowed, "_But—"_ And she had stopped, her face closing up. Her boyfriend had rightly guessed that whatever it was that had attempted to follow was the true reason she had been so upset earlier.

"Do you want to know something, Stephen?" Sierra purred affectionately against his lips, snuggling closer into his arms.

"What?" he queried.

"When I first met you, I thought—and, if I'm honest, for the past few months, I subconsciously believed… I thought you were a total bastard," she blurted out with her usual tactlessness, and the boy scowled in resentment. "But now… Now I realise that you're not a complete bastard: You're actually really, really nice. Goodnight."

"'Night," Steve answered with a quick peck on her nose, and watched as she climbed up the steps and slipped through the door.

Sierra entered the house on feet of feather, a song in her heart and a grin on her lips. She knew she should have been more concerned; not only had she returned one hour later than she had promised, but she had returned dress in boy's clothing, her own slightly-damp uniform thrown unceremoniously into a bag. She didn't have to look in a mirror to know that her lips were red and swollen from kissing, and would likely remain that way for a good half hour more. She knew her customarily immaculate hair was unkempt and lacklustre; she'd haphazardly run a single-tooth comb through it, and Steve didn't have any conditioner. She was also certain that she was wearing _that look_; the one that suggested she had a secret, but was unwilling to share.

She also knew, above all, that she didn't care. She was happy, she was so incredibly happy, and _nothing_—_no one_—was going to take that away from her.

Not even Christa.

"Let me guess," a female voice drawled as Sierra happily set about plundering the fruit bowl, "You had sex in the back of that old Ford of his, and then it broke down. Is that the reason why you're late?"

She deliberately ignored her sister's comments, immersing herself in the fine art of chopping bananas and tipping the sun-coloured circles carefully into a blender. She then went to the fridge in search of strawberries; when she closed the door, she found herself face-to-face with the owner of the long golden legs that Steve had found so very distracting that afternoon.

"_She doesn't happen to have a sister, does she?"_ Words that Steve would never have spoken had he known that the sister he had asked after was _her._ Though she supposed he couldn't be entirely blamed for that particular faux pas; she knew that she'd made very little effort to integrate him into her family life.

Christa was five years Sierra's senior, even though academically she was only four years above. She was what one might call a classical beauty: tall and slender, but with just enough of a curve to her body to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a woman. Her hair was a pale shade of yellow; in the summers it lightened to such a light hue that, were it not for the tanning of skin that simultaneously occurred, she could easily be mistaken for an albino, and as for her eyes… They were large, wide, incredibly blue, and deceptively innocent: you couldn't tell just from looking at her that she was a girl who had an illegal abortion when she was just sixteen years old, only to later lie to her quasi-conservative family and claim it was a miscarriage. She'd missed a year off of school so as to "come to terms with her grief." She spent it sleeping and moping around in the day, and sneaking out at night the better to do God know what with God knows who.

Sierra _hated_ her because of it: not only could Christa get away with things that would result in Sierra's strangulation at the hands of her father, but she had displayed little to no remorse at the prospect of losing a baby. Sierra would have been mad with grief, had it been her.

The fact that Christa was, by all accounts, far prettier than her didn't help their already strained relationship.

"Oh Sierra, don't be so bitter," Christa soothed, crossing her arms over her red kimono. "Most people would think I was doing you a favour, showing you what sort of friends you _really_ had." She failed to suppress a sudden smirk; Sierra had a feeling that she wasn't trying to. "Did you honestly have no idea?"

Sierra's jaw tightened, and she abruptly turned away. The truth was, whilst she may have harboured suspicions that her friends talked about her behind her back, she honestly had no idea that the conversations were so… vicious. The fact that they were led by Georgie and tended to centre around Steve only made it all the more painful:

"_I heard that one of his exes is pregnant; no really! I don't think he told Sierra this… Of course I don't know _who_, I just know that _someone _is! But he hasn't told Sierra… He only likes her because she's rich, you know… He doesn't even like brunettes, he prefers blondes, or at least that's what Angie told me when we used to speak to each other; I wonder how quickly he'll drop her when he meets her sister, she's much more his type…"_

And it had been that same fair-haired sister that had dragged her into the dormitory—St Katherine's was a boarding school as well as a day school—and pulled her into the next room the better to eavesdrop. It was also that same sister that had traipsed through the rain, pausing only to smile at _her_ boyfriend; and Steve's reaction to the older girl—coupled with everything she had learned and heard of her so-called friends—had actually moved Sierra to tears, though she would never admit it. But then Steve had kissed her, and suddenly everything was alright again.

"Go away, Christa," she said; and whilst the words may have been childish, the tone of voice was not.

"I'm simply expressing my concern," Christa responded in her frustratingly aloof manner. "I'm very worried about who—or what—my darling little sister is getting involved with. It's perfectly natural."

It would have been far easier to spar with her sister had she not been so well-raised and well-educated. The comment about the Ford had been childish, but it had been a mere slip of the tongue. Wit did not come as naturally to Sierra as it did to others: she knew she wouldn't win. So she remained silent for a time, searching for something mildly alcoholic.

"You shouldn't have talked me into eavesdropping on them," she said at last, quietly. "That was rather hurtful."

"Oh was it? I am sorry; that hadn't been my intention in the slightest." Sarcasm was always more painful when the derisive words were spoken with something resembling sincerity.

Sierra never would understand why her older sister bullied her so: she'd once suspected that it was to do with displacing her position as the youngest child and only girl, but why would that matter since she had usurped little—if any—parental attention? Of the three offspring, she was, after all, the only one to have been cared for by a nanny: the elder two had been hand-reared by the parents themselves. So she knew it wasn't due to lacking affection. In time, she came to accept that some people were born to spite: and Sierra herself was one of them, although she took care not to be as casually cruel as Christa.

"You wouldn't have been as upset, you know, if you didn't know that it was true."

"It wasn't true; it was just a patchwork of rumours fabricated by a gaggle of bored schoolgirls."

"Oh, I know you were never pregnant—you're not very attractive, and sticking your fingers down your throat every night isn't going to help matters—"

"I don't!" she snapped—a little too defensively, it should be noted. "Not anymore."

"You never told them that those three months last year were spent in the Priory, did you? No wonder they thought you were giving birth, considering how your reputation does precede you—But never mind, that was last year and I'm getting off topic. So they were wrong about you being pregnant: but how do you know that they were wrong about—Steve, is it?"

"They were," she insisted. "They don't even know him. He doesn't like me just because I'm rich: _no one_ is that shallow. And he's not using me for sex, either, before you ask: the most we've ever done is kiss, and he's always treated me with the utmost respect. He loves me."

"Didn't he rob you?" the elder sister asked slyly.

"…Well, _yes_," Sierra allowed: "But only because he doesn't like chatting girls up with recycled lines."

"Hmm. Alright, I'll let you have that one, but only because the numerous negatives are so obvious it would be an insult to your intelligence to point them out. And I'm curious: what's your reaction to what Georgie mentioned? How one of his exes is pregnant?"

Sierra slammed the fridge door shut; it shuddered for a good thirty seconds afterwards.

"Now _that_ is just malicious: Georgie—_Georgiana_, rather—has a crush on _my_ ex, Julian, but he's either gay or in love with me: Either way, he's not paying her any sort of attention. It's my firm belief she began that rumour with the hope that it would eventually reach me. None of Steve's exes are pregnant, at least not by _him_: he'd have told me, if that were the case. We share things."

A low, mocking laugh spilled from Christa's perfect lips. "Oh Sierra: for all your affectations at worldliness and sophistication, when it comes to men, you're very much still a child."

"Which says more about you and your taste in boyfriends than it does mine."

"I'm not looking for a healthy, loving, equal relationship, and neither are you, or else you wouldn't have left Julian for Steve. I've heard say that our taste in men implies that we suffer from self-destructive tendencies, but I don't think that's the case, do you? It makes us sound like victims."

"_Firstly_," Sierra stressed, "I am still a child, in legal terms if not in anything else; secondly, we are _not_ alike, as our parents subtly insinuate whenever they're home; and thirdly, I'm not self-destructive. Steve is good for me; he must be, or else you wouldn't be attempting to sabotage our relationship as fervently as you are." She paused and allowed her eyes to scan her sister's faultless body in a disdainful way that was rare for her. "Flaunting yourself as you did this afternoon—what was _that_ meant to achieve? I _know_ he finds other girls attractive, I'm not an idiot—and now this." She hoped that by ridiculing her sister's subtle attempt at flirtation she would effectively disguise how much it had threatened her: seeing Steve's brief but intense reaction to Christa's beauty alone had actually brought her to tears.

Christa quirked an eyebrow at this. "Has it ever occurred to you," she said slowly, "that the only reason I haven't told Father or that dreadful Olivia—" Olivia, of course, being Sierra's ex-nanny and current guardian-cum-housekeeper, "about your _current_ infatuation is because I'm curious to see the train wreck this affair will leave you in."

"No, it's because you've got nothing to tell. I've never been secretive about Steve; my family just isn't interested enough to ask." She couldn't help the bitterness that crept into her words; as if she had known anything other than coldness from her parents. "Now, if you've nothing further to say, I'm off to bed."

**-x!x-**

**AN:** How long do you think… Oh, never mind. Just please leave a review telling me what you think of Sierra's relationship with her sister, and how long you think this newfound happiness with Steve is going to last.


	15. Divine Providence

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Fourteen:** Divine Providence_

"I can't believe you hadn't told her!" Angie raged, hitting her friend most violently. "I _cannot_ believe you hadn't told her!"

Steve was momentarily saved by diving under the table; he attempted to scramble out of the other end, but then fell flat on his face as Angie's fist wrapped tightly about his ankle, pulled him backwards, and pinched his ear tightly in the vice created by her forefinger and thumb.

"Why do you always _do_ that?" he yelped.

"'Cause you're a prat, that's why!" And she released his ear the better to give him a sound slap.

"Right," she said in a voice of dangerous calm, sitting casually on his calves. "So let's recap, shall we? How long have you known Sierra?"

"Um, seven months?" he guessed, and she rolled her eyes.

"I meant, how long has she known you?"

"…Six."

"And how long have you known Kim was pregnant?"

"…Five," he reluctantly admitted.

"Good: So tell me, exactly what excuse do you have for not telling your girlfriend that you're going to be a father in eleven weeks' time?"

Steve shrugged, and surreptitiously attempted to buck the slender girl off of his legs; she simply pulled up his trouser leg and pulled at one of the dark hairs she found.

"Well, I—Ow!—haven't had the opportunity to bring it up yet. It's not as if babies are on either of our agenda."

"It is on yours! And it's definitely on Kim's, which means that pending motherhood is now on mine."

"_Exactly_," Steve pointed out. "There are already too many women in this threesome—now there's something I never thought I'd say when I woke up this morning, but it's true. And Sierra really isn't a part of it, if you think about it."

"Well, she _was_ there at the moment of conception," Angie said coolly. "And that's more than I can lay claim to."

Had Steve been a decent man, he would have winced at these words; or pale, or even flush. As it was, he simply shrugged and turned to look up at her, his face closed.

"Could you get off me please? I can only feel three of my ten toes. Thank you. _And_," he continued, crawling towards a chair and turning to lean against it as he drew his knees up, "And she wasn't actually there at the very moment of conception; she only stayed for a bit of the foreplay."

Angie's dark eyebrow quirked at this. "For you, foreplay is the three seconds it takes to unbutton your trousers."

"You were a lesbian," he dismissed. "There was no point trying to make a good impression."

Angie opened her mouth to hotly deny this allegation, only to close it and simply shrug; there was the _slim_ possibility that her ex had a point.

"That's completely irrelevant," she continued, clambering after him and dusting herself off. "The fact that still remains that you haven't told your girlfriend that you've gotten someone else pregnant. For the love of God, _why_?"

There was only a silence in which Steve decided to stare pensively out of the window.

"The first time we kissed was in April," he said at last. Angie was too righteously indignant to register the significance of this late date.

"That's very sweet, but I've yet to see the point."

"_April,_" he repeated, stressing the word. "Six months after we actually met. That's an incredibly long time for a couple to _not_ kiss, don't you think?"

"…Oh. _Oh._ Steve—it wasn't her first… was it?"

He simultaneously shrugged and nodded. "Think so; didn't bother to ask." A slight smirk pulled at his lips. "My mouth hasn't exactly been my own for the past few weeks."

"So I take it you were lying when you said that you whisked her off to Brighton for a mostly-female orgy then."

"I never said that! Subtly _implied_ it, perhaps—but never _said_."

"Hmph."

Pause.

"Steve? If you've only kissed her last month… Do you have other girlfriends you haven't told anyone about?"

"No," he replied, so firmly that Angie was inclined to believe him.

"Have you had any meaningless, one-off sexual encounters?" she pressed.

"Point is," Steve said quickly, hurriedly steering the conversation back to a less slap-worthy domain, "Point is, it's barely been a month after we'd kissed; and she actually _likes_ me now—She's girly and giggly and affectionate and sweet—I don't want to ruin that. I've never seen her so happy before; I don't want to hurt her. I'm trying to think of her feelings."

"And the fact that this baby, who will grow to inevitably serve as an eternal reminder that you had sex with someone else on the night that the two of you met, and therefore won't go down too well with her, has _nothing_ to do with your vow of silence?" she challenged.

"Women shouldn't be allowed to think," he pouted.

"Steve—you're a prat. Kim is due in _eleven weeks_—you _have_ to tell her."

"Why haven't _you_ told her yet?" Verne abruptly questioned.

"Huh?"

"The two of you are pretty close, aren't you? So why haven't you told her yourself?"

"Because I wanted to be a good friend and give you a chance to explain yourself. Besides," she added carelessly, "Sierra doesn't like to hear me talk about Kim."

"Because I slept with her?"

"Yeah."

Another pause; another lull in conversation.

"I've always planned on telling her, you know."

"I know; you're a prat, not a bastard."

"But later. Much later. At an appropriate time."

"Appropriate time?"

"Yeah. You know, on my deathbed or something."

"It's not funny, Stephen."

"Sorry."

* * *

That was only the beginning of what he would soon consider to be the impossible task of telling Sierra the truth. The first time he attempted to broach the subject—only three days after his violent discussion with Angie—Sierra had promptly regaled him with the woeful tale of her two-faced friends. She had been making quite a show of being aloof and nonchalant and occasionally sarcastic, when all of a sudden she had slumped forwards, placed her face in her hands, and silently began to sob.

"There are only three people my age I actually speak to now," she told him quietly. "You, Julian, and Angie. You're the person I'm most comfortable with, of course."

"Me?"

"Yes, because I know that I can trust you. Angie is a darling, truly she is, but I'm afraid I haven't really gotten to know her as well as I'd hoped. And Julian will simply say—and you must remember that this is only _his_ opinion, not mine, and hardly the truth—that my loss of friends is your fault, which it certainly isn't. And don't get me wrong, I love Julian—but not as much as I do you. And there are also times when I feel as if his histrionic tendencies are just that—staged hysterics meant to manipulate me. You've only ever been honest to me, Stephen. You may have robbed me, but—" she smiled, laughing a little, "—at least you admitted to it. Oh, I'm so sorry for going on so long—what was it you wanted to tell me, darling?"

How could he possibly tell her about Kim after all that?

His second attempt was thwarted on slightly more shallow grounds:

"Is that a new bra?"

"No; it's a new corset."

And his third attempt was completely butchered by his landlady, who had chosen to rather selfishly die. Looking back, he supposed he could consider the entire incident quite amusing:

Sierra had slept over on Friday, having arrived on his doorstep immediately after school. They began their evening walking through London parks attempting not to get mugged (one boy was stupid enough to snatch Sierra's bag, but Steve broke his nose, so everything turned out fine in the end) and ended it curled up in one another's arms. When he eventually disentangled himself and went to gather his mail, he discovered a letter from his landlady demanding twice the agreed amount on rent.

"Can you believe it?" he asked Sierra. "This place isn't worth _that_."

"Where does Ms. Richardson live?" _Ms_, because Steve was uncertain of whether she was married or not.

"In the flat above; she owns the whole building, you know."

"Why don't you go talk to her after breakfast then? I'm sure you'll be able to come to some sort of understanding."

So the wronged tenant trekked up the stairs, Sierra tailing loyally behind, watching as he rapped his knuckles against the door; when it opened, Sierra inhaled sharply, turned, and promptly darted to the stairwell. The boyfriend decided to question her later.

"I'd like to speak to Ms. Richardson, please," he asked politely of the dark man who answered.

"I'm afraid you can't speak with her," was his stoic reply.

"Why not; is she out?"

"She's dead."

"I don't ca—I mean, Oh, how dreadful. Um, sorry to hear about that." And he bowed his head and made a show of grieving, adding brightly, "Does this mean I'm let off of paying the rent?"

"No," the lawyer said firmly. "Miss Richardson left a will bequeathing all material possessions to a certain Ginger George."

"And I suppose Ginger decided to raise the rent, then?"

The young lawyer, who could have been no more than eight years older than himself, allowed a smirk to curl the corner of his lip. "I very much doubt that Ginger is capable of issuing such demands."

"Oh really?" he challenged, adding lazily, "I'd like to speak to Ginger George, if that's alright. Is she here, or do you have a number?"

"Oh no, _he's_ here."

He ignored the pointed correction, stepping past the older man and surveying the larger flat critically.

"Where?"

"In the kitchen."

"Which part of the kitchen?"

"Last time I saw him, he was nosing around the breadbin; and now he's trapped inside it," he added pleasantly as there was a sudden thud, followed by a mewl of surprise, curiosity, and horror.

For Ginger George was, of course, a cat; nay, not a cat: a kitten. He sported a pair of large blue eyes and cream-coloured whiskers; around his neck, contrasting prettily with the striped orange and white fur, was a collar of deep blue, a little silver disc hanging off of it. Steve stared at it, incredulous.

"You've got to be joking. That can't be legal."

"No," the lawyer repudiated with a suppressed smile, reaching out to pet the cat's head. "Miss Richardson clearly stated in her will that all material possessions are to be left to Ginger George; ergo, it is law."

The tenant looked doubtfully at the animal. "Is he even old enough to vote?"

"That's entirely irrelevant; now sir, I believe you've something to discuss with George?"

The teenager looked down at his folded slip of paper, then at his curious landlord. He narrowed his eyes; he set his jaw. Then, stepping towards both cat and lawyer, he shook out the letter, thrust it in front of George's uncomprehending face, and said sternly, "I am _not_ paying this."

George mewled, batting a white paw at the sheet of paper.

Sierra eventually talked him out of assassinating that avaricious cat; the next day, the lawyer who had been assigned to care for the cat walked into the deceased Miss Richardson's flat to be confronted with a jewel-blue collar curled upon a note that simply read,

_Do not attempt to search for me, for when you have found this note, I would have long since departed. I was far too young when my mistress was taken from me; I have yet to fully comprehend this tragic and untimely event. Locked in here, prowling through the dusty Serengeti of my beloved Mother's home, I find myself unable to think of anything but her, and as such, am quite overwhelmed by grief. Whilst I am, of course, profoundly grateful for the unexpected generosity that Mother had, in life, found in her (admittedly weak) heart to bestow upon me her entire fortune in death, I know that I can never fully bring myself to enjoy the pleasures my newly-acquired riches now offer me. As such, I have decided to retire to a Swedish monastery, where I hope, spiritually cleansed and eternally bathed in the catnip-scented blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ and His Heavenly Father, to at last find peace. PS. I hereby bequeath all my material wealth to Stephen Verne, 3B._ The signature was an inky paw print, obviously extracted under extreme duress.

That same day, Sierra announced she had brought home a new pet; a little ginger kitten called George, who she had found quite abandoned in an empty shoebox.

* * *

So anyway: that had been the third attempt. And now, tonight would be the fourth—and _final_, he told himself, though he knew by then that this may not prove to be the case.

"Sierra," he began, his fingers pensively curling her hair. "Sierra, I've a question for you."

"Hmm?" she hummed contentedly against his throat, raising her head to look down at him curiously. "And what might that be?"

Looking up at her, he couldn't help but hesitate. Then he smiled in what he hoped was a disarming manner.

"I was just thinking," he said, gently sitting up and pulling her with him, "I was just thinking, do you remember, when we walked through St James' Park? It was sunset, at that time when everything's painted burnt orange and gold. You had your hair tied back, but the wind blew the, um—whatever it was that tied your hair back—away, and you chased after it ahead of me, remember? And when you turned back to me, the light filtered through your hair in such a way that I took you in my arms, whispered how beautiful I thought you were, and kissed you; do you remember that afternoon?"

A bashful smile pulled at her lips even as her cheeks pinked.

"Yes…" she answered, clearly pleased.

_Oh, good,_ he thought, relieved. Aloud he abruptly added, "Angie's girlfriend is going to have my baby," and kissed her passionately before she had a chance to reply.

It goes without saying that upon surfacing, the first thing she did was stare at him.

"Is—Is that a joke, Stephen?" she stumbled, uncertain if she'd even heard him correctly. "W-What are you talking about?"

He said nothing, merely looked anxiously down at her.

"Steve?" Her voice was small, high, panicked. "A-Are you saying…? Have you—Are you… with other girls then?"

He didn't answer.

"I'm not angry," she said gently, reaching for his hand. "And I'm no fool, Stephen; I thought you might have… considering how _we're_ not…" She paused, inhaling shakily, and smiled forcefully up at him; but try as she might, she couldn't disguise the hurt in her eyes. Tightening his grip on her body, he looked searchingly at her face, at her small, false smile, unquestionably juxtaposed with her shocked, wounded gaze.

"It's alright," she continued in measured tones. "I mean, it's just _hormones_, right?" That _right_ sounded wavering and uncertain; he had to look away.

"Steve," she said carefully. "Steve, I… I don't know what else to say." She gave a nervous laugh after this, and he wondered which she found more disconcerting; his silence, or his confession. "I think—I think that I'm—Well, I don't actually mind you _being_ with other girls; after all you're not… with me. And I can't blame you for your overactive sperm, s-so…"

Her stuttering and stumbling reassurances were beginning to have an effect on him; truth be told, he'd never felt _guilt_ over Kim's pregnancy, as technically, the child was conceived _before_ he became involved with Sierra. As for the few flings with other girls; well firstly, they were more one night stands than _flings_, and secondly the participants, as it were, all resembled Sierra in one way or another, so he was only being _partly_ unfaithful.—And Sierra had said it herself: better to be mildly adulterous than to pressure her into something she, despite her protests otherwise, was not yet ready for.

That being said, he _had_ feared her reaction to his announcement, and couldn't help but feel that this stammering of hers was simply the calm before the storm.

"Oh, Steve!" she laughed suddenly, reaching up to tap his chin affectionately. "Were you afraid that—? Oh! you're such a darling!" And she reached up with both her hands to grasp his face affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose. "When's the baby due?" she queried breezily.

He was taken aback by this apparent turnabout.

"Huh?"

"The baby," Sierra said. "Angie's girlfriend's baby. Seven months? Eight?"

"Nine weeks," he deadpanned.

There was an ironically pregnant pause in which the laughing, affectionate smile he had come to love fell from her features like rain from a cloud.

"…Nine weeks?" she repeated numbly.

"Yes."

"Steve," Sierra began quietly, "is Angie's girlfriend still…" A pause as she groped for a name. "…Kim?"

He frowned down at her. "I thought you two were friends?"

"Well, we _are_," Sierra said, bewildered. "But - But Angie never mentioned a girlfriend before…" As she spoke, he saw realisation dawn in her eyes; he didn't have to be a mind reader to know that she was swiftly sorting through all the conversations the two had shared, realising that Angie hadn't so much _forgotten_ to discuss her lover as gone out of her way _not_ to—and she did that because, because…

Apprehensively, he watched as her blue, blue eyes refocused on his.

"Steve," she said icily, "was this baby conceived on Hallowe'en, by any chance?"

"Yes."

"The night that _we_ met?"

"…Yes…" he replied, more quietly than before.

"Only a few days after my birthday?"

Oh, _fuck._

"Steve?"

Her boyfriend stared down at her with trepidation. _Christ,_ he prayed silently, _if you really are as loving and merciful as everyone makes you out to be, you would somehow find it in your heart to save me from her—_

At that very moment, the doorbell buzzed: coincidence, or divine providence? He was suddenly very interested in finding out.

"Good evening," the taller of the two immaculately clothed gentlemen greeted pleasantly. "We'd like to talk to you about Jesus, if you'd be so obliging."

Apparently divine providence, although Steve hadn't realised this immediately. Lip curling disdainfully, he was about to suggest an intimate area in which the pair could stash their indubitably non-canonical Bibles when the words of his brief, unhopeful prayer echoed back to him: _Christ, if you really are as loving…_

And then, as if to confirm his growing suspicion, the speaker leant even closer to whisper, almost conspiratorially,

"We were sent here by Him, you know."

Steve abruptly glanced over his shoulder, realising that Sierra was still in his room, no doubt fuming on his mattress, and then, smiling, stepped out of the doorframe with a flourish, and cheerfully gestured, "Come on in!"

The Christian couple's reaction to this merry invitation was unprecedented; both clung to one another, stepping suddenly back, the shorter, bespectacled man paling whilst the speaker's dark eyes widened.

"W-What did you say?" he asked evenly, his eyes betraying his nervousness.

"I'd love to talk about Jesus; what's he been up to lately? Come in, come in!" the lodger repeated giddily, holding the door wide open and peering expectantly at his unexpected guests.

"Don't , Rupert!" the shorter, stockier man shrieked unexpectedly. "It's a trap, it's a trap!"

Rupert placed a skinny arm around his companion's shoulders, patting him comfortingly. "Hush, Roger," he soothed, before turning with a shaky smile to the younger boy in front of them. "You'd have to forgive my friend's reaction," he explained civilly, "It's just that no one's ever said that to us before, you see."

"Oh, right; well that's understandable. But really, please; do come in."

"Th-Thank you," muttered a still-petrified Roger, stepping nervously over the threshold, a large black briefcase clutched protectively to his chest as he looked wildly around. He flinched as the door closed behind him, and turned to see his unknown host watching him in amusement.

"I'm Steve," he introduced, offering his tanned hand to shake. "Nice to meet you."

Roger swallowed nervously, his fingers shaking as he grasped Steve's loosely. "V-V-Very nice to meet you, St-Steve."

"Right. Oh, where are my manners? Please, have a seat. Perhaps I might interest you in a drink? Tea, coffee…" A deliberate pause before he added innocently, "Bloody Mary?"

"Mother of God!" Roger squeaked, looking wildly around.

"It's a cocktail, Roger," Rupert explained, patting his knee comfortingly. "Just tea for us, thank you Stephen. Both milk, one sugar each."

"Alright," Steve replied cheerfully. Before retreating to the kitchen, he poked his head through his bedroom door and asked, "Sweetheart, aren't you going to join us?"

A shriek and a flying shoe were his reply.

"Perhaps later then."

* * *

"So…" Steve said once the tea was served and the three of them sat crowded around his unremarkable coffee table. "I believed you mentioned something about Jesus?"

"Oh, yes. What about Him?" Roger asked.

"Well, I thought we were going to… talk?" the host tried politely. At their blank looks he sighed, set his cup down, and said, "I'll go first: Jesus… is the Son of God. Which can only be a good thing, right?"

"…Yes," Rupert mumbled into his cup. "Yes, I suppose it is. He _is_ good, isn't he?"

There were murmured agreements from the other two, followed by an awkward silence.

"Um, why…" Steve began again. "Why did you… choose to become Christians?"

"Because of Jesus, of course," Rupert replied.

"I meant," he added quickly, desperately attempting to avoid any lulls in the conversation, "_why_ Jesus? What's your… Which story about him was it, that convinced you, as it were?"

Roger and Rupert looked uncertainly at one another.

"Well," Rupert began tentatively, "I always liked… his Sermon on the Mount…"

"…Right… And you, Roger?"

Roger blinked and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nervously sweaty nose.

"P-Personally, I always liked the story where he helps that Samaritan…" he blustered.

"What? Jesus never did that."

"Yes, he did," Roger insisted. "The poor Samaritan was beaten by a band of robbers and left on the road to die, and only Jesus, of all the passers-by, was willing to help him, even though their respective nations were enemies."

"_No_," Steve corrected firmly, "the Good Samaritan was a story _told_ by Jesus as a parable, teaching his followers to love their neighbour."

"Oh…"

Another awkward silence.

"Look," the non-Christian said at last, "surely you have some… leaflets or something for me to look at?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes! Roger, those books we have…"

"What about them?"

"Be a dear and get them out, won't you my sweet?"

Roger nodded enthusiastically and clumsily set his briefcase on his lap, fumbling awkwardly with the latches. As he did so, Rupert, who had been looking curiously around at his new environment, started and released a gasp of horror: following his gaze, Steve saw that Sierra had at long last appeared. Her eyes were a little red, black make-up smudged grey beneath her lashes, but her lips were firm. She nodded genially at the two gentlemen in matching black suits.

"Good evening. Sorry it took me so long to join you; I was having a slight emotional breakdown."

"…R-_Roger_!" the taller of the pair squeaked hoarsely; his partner looked up, his eyes bulging as they fell upon Sierra, who frowned and proceeded to look understandably confused. The boyfriend smiled gently at her, but she ignored him; shrugging, he took the opportunity to gently tug the briefcase from Rupert's slack grip. Setting the battered rectangle carefully on the table, he gently flipped it open, picking up a handsome black book entitled _The Transcendent Bible_.

"I-It's her," Rupert gibbered fearfully to Roger. "The Infernal Succubus! She Who Must Not Be Seen!"

"I-I'm sorry?" Sierra ventured, bemused. The answer to their respective reactions lied within the book Verne held in his hands.

The frontispiece of the _Transcendent Bible_ was an eighteenth-century engraving of a beautiful dark-haired woman that, to Steve's understandable surprise, looked not unlike an adult Sierra: Her face and body were turned slightly away, her seductive, heavy-lidded eyes gazing directly up at him, full lips slightly parted, as though about to beckon him closer. The drawing was a bust, and showcased hers quite explicitly: her hair was pinned up, but for a thick lock that fell upon her neck and shoulder, curling just above a small, inked nipple, her other breast being modestly covered by a hand pulling the edge of her unbuttoned chemise further downwards; Beneath this provocative picture coiled a banner, inked with the curving words, _The Infernal Succubus_.

The page after it, he saw when he reluctantly turned it over, was exceptionally blank (and more so in comparison), save for a few choice words about a third of the way down:

**DICKINSONIA**  
_Sodomite-Friendly Christianity for the Modern Misogynist_

Steve decided then and there that it was worth becoming a Dickinsonian, if only to keep a copy of this erotic print of a woman who looked suspiciously like his virginal girlfriend; closing the tome gently so as not to crease the frontispiece, he couldn't help his sly, lecherous glance at Sierra, who hovered on the threshold, uncertain of whether to step forward or dart back into her boyfriend's room. (It goes without saying that he hoped it was the latter.)

Roger and Rupert, meanwhile, were having a most profound discussion:

"Do we hiss, or do we snarl?"

"There's two of us; let us do both."

"No, curse you, Roger! We cannot do both!—Quick! the _Bible_! What has our founding father written?"

Steve cracked the _Transcendent Bible_ open, scanning the contents with deliberate slowness. "_A Dickinsonian, when confronted by the Infernal Succubus or, indeed, any one of her daughters, sisters, minions, etc. is fearless_," he read aloud. "_He shall not cower, nor tremble, nor shake, and if the Succubus or any one of her innumerable accomplices inspires unnatural desires within him, he must, first and foremost, pray to the Lord God for strength; firstly, to resist her infernal charm, and secondly, to carry off whatever gratuitously big-haired pirate captain (or equivalent) in close proximity who may have already fallen prey to her infernal lusts._" He looked up, brown eyes widening as he realised that both Dickinsonians were examining him with intense interest.

"Oh no," he said, shrinking away, the _Transcendent Bible_ held protectively before his chest. "No; I am not in any way an equivalent of a gratuitously big-haired pirate captain." He glanced at Sierra, realising that she was looking more than a little bewildered.

"…W-What?"

"Don't fret my sweet," he called to her, swatting at Roger's outstretched fingers with the _Bible_. "Get out," he ordered the pair firmly. "_Out_—Sierra quick, show them your bra."

Roger and Rupert promptly ran out screaming, their briefcase of Dickinsonian propaganda quite forgotten.

"…Well," the boy said uneasily when Sierra made no attempt to speak, "That was certainly interesting."

Slowly, her dark head turned towards him; she said nothing, merely gazed steadily at him with her cool, unblinking eyes.

_Her eyes are so cold,_ he realised as he looked at her; whilst he'd always known that her eyes were blue, he'd no idea what shade they actually were, primarily because he was too busy studying what was below her neckline to pay any mind to anything above it. He'd always known they weren't that watery, almost faded shade of blue that was so very common; nor were they the deep, dramatic sapphire of that German lingerie model whose name he'd never bothered to discover: hers were a light, icy shade, cold and unwelcoming as the Arctic. They contrasted powerfully with her luscious dark hair and not-quite-pale skin, yet it was this very clash that made her face so memorable; darker eyes would have been lost in her gold-tinted colouring.

"Six months," she said at last, as though the Dickinsonians had never entered his flat; "Six months you had, to tell me." She paused, but he didn't reply; he was biding his time, watching her face and flint-like eyes for any sign of weakness. But for the first time since he'd known her, her face was completely closed to him, watching him quietly in that oddly detached manner of hers.

"I see," she said at last, in that unfeeling voice of hers; adjusting her sleeve, she moved stiffly towards his open front door, and it was only then that he realised she'd had her bag with her.

She paused, turning to look up at him in a forlorn fashion, her impassive mask all but forgotten. He knew he had her then.

"Steve?" she said, and there was an undeniable hopelessness in her tone.

"Darling—"

She smiled at this, her eyes dropping to her feet as she shook her head.

"This is so odd," she remarked conversationally. "I always knew that our relationship was a transient one, but never did I think—And certainly not like this."

"Sierra," he said softly, and that false grin widened.

"To say that I don't want to see you ever again would be pitifully dramatic," she told him, forcing nonchalance. "So I'll spare us both the embarrassment: it was very nice to have… known you, Stephen. And whilst I may not want to see you for a good while yet, I certainly shan't rule out some time in the near to distant future; we do, after all, share a mutual friend in Angela."

It was so odd to hear her call Angie by her full name; he resisted the urge to tell her so.

"I do know," Sierra added gently, "that it wasn't your fault, not really. And I realise that if you and Kim only shared one night, it was _technically_ before we began seeing one another, and I can't begrudge you that. But I'm not sure, you see, if you and Kim shared _just_ that night, nor how many other girls there are that you're also seeing, or even if—" she sniffled at this "—or even if you have other, more serious relationships; I know that ours is quite juvenile.

"What I'm trying to say, Stephen," she continued in that oddly matter-of-fact tone of hers, "What I'm trying to say, is that I need some time away from you—not very long, I shouldn't think—to examine this entire—_situation_… objectively. Surely you understand?"

He was too stunned by her clear, level-headed reasoning to do anything but nod whilst simultaneously marvelling at how well-bred she truly was.

"I knew you would," she told him, that fake smile never leaving her face. "Well then: I really ought to have left by now. Good night," and she darted across the threshold, slamming the door shut behind her.

That was, without a doubt, the oddest, most painless break-up he'd ever had—and it had happened so quickly, so civilly that he'd hardly understood what _was_ happening.

Shaking his dark head, he tossed the _Bible_ carelessly onto an empty seat as he made his way towards the door, pressing his ear against the cool wood. Somehow, he was able to sense her presence; map out her body in his mind's eye, feel her shoulders tremble with suppressed tears as she slumped over her drawn-up knees in embarrassment and hurt.

"Sierra?" he asked gently; through the wood he heard a quiet gasp, felt her pulling herself to her feet. He heard the slow, deliberate _clack-clack-clack_ of her relatively low heels, then a silence.

It was at that very moment that he truly realised she was gone.

"Oh," he said at last, neither knowing nor caring how anticlimactic he sounded. Shaking his head, he found himself moving towards the window, his eyes looking into the dirty grey street below.

It was perhaps a good thing that he was so preoccupied with searching for Sierra, for had he been looking at the glass, he would have realised that the thoughtful brown eyes and tanned, unshaven face that should have been his reflection was not that of Stephen Verne.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Ladies (and possibly gentlemen), thank you for choosing How My Perfect Life Was Inverted Airways. Our next destination will be 17th/18th century PotC world, due to arrive next chapter… The cabin staff will like to take this opportunity to remind all passengers to take a moment to fill out a review form, so that we can better our service for future flights. (Well it's better than leaving a note saying "PLZ PLZ PLZ REVIEW!" isn't it? )


	16. Geneviève

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Fifteen:** Geneviève_

"…I'd personally prefer if we turned the sleeve up a bit; lace seems a little too formal for a riding habit, don't you agree?"

"That's all very well and good, Miss, but what is Mademoiselle's opinion on the matter?" I heard Mr. Houghton, the dressmaker, simultaneously address both Flavio and myself. Sighing, I turned my unseeing gaze away from the planted orange trees and rose bushes, gently fanning myself. I had been sitting melancholically on the veranda, brooding over my short life so far, Flavio curled at my feet with a book on embroidery he had found in Lady Hale's abandoned room, when we had suddenly spotted the friendly duo trudging up the path, escorted by two liveried servants.

I had every reason to be morose; I recognised the veranda from the dream I had had of Jack not so long ago, in which we had kissed to distract the guards. When, walking arm-in-arm with Flavio about the Governor's meticulously landscaped and distinctly European gardens, I had spotted it, I had torn my arm away from my maid's, leaving him to deal with my hastily-dropped parasol, and rushed eagerly towards it in search of a torn rectangle of my nightdress snagged on the ivy. I was surprised to see that the ivy had recently been trimmed away, leaving only close-cropped tufts of beige-coloured stalks as evidence of its presence: It seemed as if the entire household was conspiring against my ever discovering whether Jack's visit was a dream or not. With this realisation, I had promptly sunk into a sulk, and Flavio had to dart to the kitchen to fetch me a chair. The Houghtons had arrived about twenty minutes later, smiling and apologising profusely for being unable to call earlier.

"Oh nonsense!" I'd exclaimed with a somewhat false smile. "Why, it was only three days since I'd visited your little workshop; frankly, I think that this is rather quick."

The wife gave the husband a knowing smile and, as Flavio and I pored over the sketches, I heard her murmur to her husband, "Didn't I tell you, Jamie? A lady of _proper_ breeding isn't at all as insufferable as these affected… _plantation_ wives and daughters."

I bent my head to hide my smile; although I've been subjected to numerous adjectives in my time, 'not insufferable' had never been amongst them. I was rather pleased with it.

"There is a favour," I said quickly, glancing up at the pair, "that I've been meaning to ask of you…" I turned to Flavio, worry flurrying across my mind as I groped for his false name. "J - Jeanne-Louise…?" I trailed off pointedly, and his violet eyes widened.

This morning, I had had a discussion with Flavio; a discussion which resulted in my maid flouncing off to unknown maid-friendly quarters in a sulk. Because Flavio had brought with him a collection of the most dazzling gowns I had laid eyes on since waking up in the colonial Caribbean, it had seemed perfectly sensible to me that, as well as commissioning new dresses, I adjust all of Flavio's own gowns to fit my own, more womanly figure—and although Flavio's frocks were a few inches too small for me, I'd like to state that yes, it was possible for the garments to be loosened for my fuller figure. Flavio's tailor had been an intelligent man (or woman, I didn't know for certain); knowing that people's bodies can wax and wane over time, he had left a good five inches of the material over, flatly folded and hidden along all the seams, in the event of Flavio's weight gain (which apparently hadn't happened yet). Last night at supper, I had squeezed with relative ease into that stunning silk number, so I knew that only a few inches needed to be let out before it could fit me more snugly.

Flavio had protested rather childishly at my plan, of course, but—before he could throw a tantrum—I threatened to have him dismissed from his post. It may seem cruel, but if you had seen the clothes in his possession, you'd have done exactly the same thing. Eventually, Flavio had calmed down enough to consent to have his gowns "destroyed, mutilated, and torn open to make way for your _fat_—" I promptly threw a shoe at him, and that was when he disappeared to sulk. I spent the half-hour I had alone standing in front of a full-length mirror, studying my figure from every angle, until he had returned.

"_Jeanne?_" I now said warningly. "_The dresses? Might you fetch them for me?_"

Flavio's lower lip began to quiver, his eyes filling up, and I hurriedly shooed him away before he caused a scene.

"So!" I said brightly, wincing at my perfect English. "A-About this… model," I blurted out stupidly, skidding around the word _pattern_, "Th-This will… suit me?"

They both stumbled over themselves to assuage my fears, and we continued to discuss various patterns and materials and the latest fashions from Paris until I became aware of two male eyes upon me. I stiffened a little, and turned to look out over the landscaped gardens.

"Christophe!" I gasped, fanning myself rapidly. It took me a moment to realise that this was the first time I had seen him in direct sunlight—and how it suited him! I studied him in awe, my eyes roving over him in wonder as though I had never seen him before.

He was dressed, I realised with a frown, in a riding habit a little too dark for the heat of the Caribbean; his cotton shirt, peeking out beneath his loose ebony waistcoat, had been dyed a deep burgundy, complementing the unfashionably bronzed skin of his face and chest. _How did he get so brown?_ I couldn't help but wonder; Was it due to the low cut of his shirts, or did he ride shirtless once far enough from all those of maidenly sensibilities; or did he even—_Oh stop it, Sierra._ His breeches were black, or perhaps an extremely dark grey, made of a thicker material than his paper-thin shirt, and I tried not to think of how hot he must have been beneath them; his boots were a soft black leather, cleaned and polished to shining perfection; only the scuffs, so prominent that not even the best of boot-black could entirely conceal them, informed the world of how worn they truly were. Around his neck hung a kerchief of some dull, black material. He wore no frockcoat, opting instead for a long black cloak, swept over one shoulder. There was something wonderfully gothic and timeless about his apparel; the darkness of his garments seemed to absorb the relentless sunlight, making him appear both sensual and sinister—traits, I realised, that were far from incompatible. I was so shocked by this transformation—last night and this morning he had appeared both fashionable and casual, but hardly… _dark_—that all I could do was stare.

When I eventually raised my eyes to his, I was taken aback at how much bluer his dark clothes and rich colouring made him; there was a mischievous, almost flirtatious sparkle as he returned my gaze, and my heart leapt in fear at the knowingness I saw there: _Did he know? Did he suspect…?_

And then: _He heard me speaking __English._

When he smiled, and swaggered towards me, I was reminded of my first impression of him: that he looked like Jack, if Jack had been an aristocrat. This thought soon fled my mind, and I heard my fan clatter to the floor as I sank weakly into my seat.

"Madame! Are you quite well?"

I smiled shakily, and nodded up at the concerned Mrs. Houghton.

"Th… The heat…" I whispered faintly, ignoring my fearfully beating heart as each slow, deliberately casual step of Christophe's brought him closer, closer, closer…

"_Why is it,_" he asked me casually, greeting me with a quick peck on the cheek, "_that a woman, when confronted with clothing, ceases to take note of the immediate world around her?_"

I smiled shakily up at him, and shrugged. "_One of life's niggling little mysteries,_" I replied stupidly, studying his face for any sign of suspicion: There was none, and I was uncertain of whether to be thankful or concerned.

"_Are you visiting… one of Uncle's neighbours?_" I asked, praying I appeared calm and serene.

Christophe's lip quirked in a manner that suggested he was attempting to suppress a smirk. "_In a manner of speaking,_" he answered evasively. "_Don't fret, petite ange; I'll return long before nightfall,_" and he gave me a quick kiss on my burning cheek and a longer, lingering caress on my fingers. I felt the imprint of his lips, light though the contact had been, long after he had left me.

The moment he was gone, adjusting his kerchief as he went, a powerful relief flooded through me; sighing, I reached down for my fan, my other hand rubbing my neck nervously.

"S-So…" I said clumsily to Mr and Mrs Houghton, who had politely stepped away during my fleeting conversation with my brother, "I believe we were discussing _échelles_…"

* * *

Christophe had lied about returning 'long before nightfall,' but my afternoon did not suffer from his absence; if anything, I benefited, even though my brother had instructed the help to effectively place me under house arrest: Paul, fearing his father's anger upon discovering the missing chandelier, had all but vanished, and I was left the mistress of the manor. I enjoyed my brief position of power immensely; I breached social protocol by taking tea with the Houghtons who, though a little old for me and were rather dull, were kind and amicable—two traits that were hard to come by. Our conversation never strayed very far from the topic of clothes, which was fine by me; speaking of which, the three of us eventually bullied—_persuaded_ Flavio into relinquishing his. I felt terrible at this act of betrayal and, when I had allowed him to traipse up to my room so that he might sob in peace, shyly commissioned the dressmaking couple to create a few frocks of his own.

"You can get his—_her_, pardon my English—measurements from these gowns," I told the pair, my hand resting on the implausibly high pile of silks and satins he had left with us—How did he and Jack sneak into the house undetected with _those_?

"If you don't mind my asking, Madame," Mrs. Houghton questioned timidly whilst her husband gaped at the gowns in rapture, "But how does an honest maid come to own such fine garments?"

I closed my eyes and cursed my recklessness; in my vanity, I had not stopped to consider what others would make of Flavio's dress collection.

"Well that, _madame_, is a rather long story; Jeanne-Louise…" and I hurriedly fabricated a tale of how 'Jeanne-Louise' was the only daughter of an alcoholic aristocrat who drank and gambled away both his wife's comparatively meagre dowry and his family fortune; how, in desperation, Jeanne-Louise had flung herself upon the mercy of an old convent-school friend of hers, which was me, and how I persuaded my father to take her in as my companion. When our ship was attacked, Jeanne and I had reasoned that it would be far safer for us to travel as lady and maid, so that only one of us would be 'eligible' for ransom, leaving the other to slip away, nigh inconspicuous, for lawful help. Her gowns, I explained, were actually my own; but I had gained a little weight since leaving Paris, and during her brief role as maid, she had grown rather attached to them; wearing such exquisite garments was the only link she had left to her former life of leisure.

"…And now she claims she'd rather die an honest maid than a shamefully impoverished aristocrat," I concluded woefully; "hence her insistence at this masquerade."

"Oh, well that explains it," Mrs. Houghton told me with a pitying, carefree smile. "My husband and I thought the two of you were rather… attached."

I thought of how the two of us slept curled up in the same bed—I was too fearful of Paul's intentions, despite Flavio's uncertain reassurances, to sleep alone, and Flavio had declared that he didn't like the look of the cramped sleeping quarters the rest of the housemaids shared—and nodded in agreement. We talked idly for a little longer, and then I bade them farewell, assuring them that my brother would pay all expenses as soon as the gowns were complete.

I then had an hour or so in which I could do as I pleased, which I spent exploring the house and attempting to reconcile with Flavio, before a liveried footman ran out panting to tell me in patronising, exaggerated English and embellished arm movements, that my aunt and uncle, Governor and Lady Hale, were returning earlier than was originally anticipated.

* * *

Governor Hale and his French wife, my aunt, Flavio told me as he hurriedly pinned and curled and loosened and generally arranged my hair over one of the too-small gowns that the Houghtons had left behind—they decided to take three of Flavio's dresses to adjust, return them upon another visit, take a few more, and repeat this process until all of the gowns were my size—had been attending a week-long—or was it two weeks?—soirée at a nearby plantation belonging to a _nouveau-riche_ expatriate and his family. They had been married either twenty or twenty-five years, depending on which maid you chose to listen to, and theirs was a companionable, if loveless, marriage.

"They're very happy together, or so I'm told," he told me as he teased my hair up to a slight Pompadour. "Arranged marriages tend to be happier than love matches, you know."

I didn't know, and asked him why this was.

"Because in an arranged marriage, both husband and wife have realistic expectations of what is to be expected of the relationship; marrying for love, on the other hand, is fraught with unforeseen, unprecedented disasters. Furthermore, an arranged marriage, when seen to properly, tend to bring together two like-minded and highly compatible people whose affections for one another should hopefully grow over time; far more likely in a love match to have the spouses falling out of love. But what's wrong, Sierra?" he added upon seeing my grave expression.

"Nicolette," I answered; "the only reason she was shipped off to the Caribbean in the first place was to marry, wasn't it? And if I, as Nicolette, was to marry this… this…"

"Sauveterre," Flavio supplied helpfully.

"Yes, Sauveterre—_him_—Do you think we'll get—We'll be happy together?"

Flavio gave an uncharacteristic snort at this.

"With your—Nicolette's—dowry and connections, I somehow doubt he'll be able to see much of the rain cloud—he'd have been blinded by the silver lining."

I pulled the brush from his hands and used it to swat at his fingers.

"That's for calling me a rain cloud," I sniffed as I handed the instrument back. "But you've seen to learn a lot about Nicolette here; tell me more about her. And her family."

Flavio had acquired all of his information through carefully planted questions, comments, and strategic eavesdropping. Maids, butlers, footmen—they all talked to one another as they worked, exchanging tattle and gossip about both Kingston and their aristocratic employers. The Évignons, I learnt, were not 'true' aristocrats—that is, they belonged to what Flavio referred to as the 'Land' nobility as opposed to the more exclusive 'Sword,' named so because the honour was won upon medieval battlefields. Basically, they bought their title instead of having it honourably bestowed upon them; their aristocratic lineage began four generations prior, when Louis-Henri Évignon purchased the marquisate of Montfévière and changed the family name to the ever more slightly aristocratic d'Évignon. This wasn't to say that they'd remain a part of the lower nobility forever, though; if the Évignons could hold onto their wealth and titles for about eight generations, they'd have subtly, successfully assimilated themselves into the elegant, courtly Sword nobility. I calculated that by the time the Évignons were fully accepted into this courtly fold, the quiet stirrings of the French Revolution would have already begun, and silently pitied the social pretender that was Louis-Henri.

"So Christophe will be the fifth Marquis de Montfévière then," I said aloud. "But I was told that Nicolette was Comtesse de Vallauris in her own right; is she a widow then?"

Certainly not, was my reply; the land of Vallauris, along with its corresponding title, was a substantial part of her dowry; after our marriage, Sauveterre could demand others to formally address him as Monsieur le Comte de Vallauris.

I wrinkled my nose at this. "What a mouthful," I declared, leaning my head forward as instructed whilst Flavio fidgeted with a few curls. "I don't think I'll enjoy being married to such an obvious social climber."

"Well I can't think of a better match for an Englishwoman who was briefly the mistress of a gratuitously big-haired pirate captain, can you?" he questioned, sticking a pin into my hair.

I looked down at my dresser, and didn't answer.

* * *

Governor Hale and his wife burst into their home with little, if any, formal ceremony. I was sat in the parlour, attempting to look demure yet aristocratic, and I was certain they would have ignored me completely, had it not been for a throat-clearing butler, and even then, Lady Hale appeared far more interested in me than her husband, who merely brushed me aside and disappeared into his study with a moodily slammed door. The wife stayed a little longer, exchanging formal pleasantries, before excusing herself and hurrying to join her husband. When the door had closed behind her, my false smile had fallen from my face, and I immediately sought out Flavio.

"How did it go?"

"They _completely_ ignored me!" I pouted childishly. "The Governor grunted, then went and shut himself in his office; and as for my aunt…"

"What of your aunt?"

I pulled at a loosened curl, which was tickling at my shoulder, and smoothed down my skirts.

"She wasn't much better." And with this, I promptly sat down on the mattress, which with my wide skirts was no mean feat. A slight rustling and creaking, accompanied by the sudden indentation of the mattress, told me that Flavio had crawled up to sit on the bed behind me.

"There _must_ be an explanation," he frowned. "Governors don't just ignore their recently-abducted niece for no good reason…"

"Well this one did."

"Were you—"

"No, I was not."

"Not even a little—?"

"_No_."

"Well then, you must've—"

"I most certainly did not!"

"Oh," he said, and promptly curled up in thought.

"Did you remember—"

"I was the politest creature since—Since a polite person did something that was incredibly polite. No, it wasn't that."

There was a pause before Flavio shyly offered, "Maybe the Governor and his wife are having a little matrimonial spat? Arranged marriages aren't the most friendliest arrangement, you know."

"'Arranged marriages aren't the most friendliest…?'—But not so long ago, you said—"

"Don't use my own words against me; it's not fair, and defies all verbal sparring etiquette. Besides, I need silence to think in."

"You actually _think_?" I snapped moodily at him, and promptly kicked off my shoes, crawling up the bed and hugging a pillow to my chest as I lay on my side. Flavio followed me, sort of; he laid his body down completely, his head moving to rest against my stomach; even through all the layers of my clothes, I swore I could feel his breath warming my skin. The possibly-imagined sensation sent a shiver down my spine, and I distracted myself by groping around the bed.

"You want a pillow, Flavio?" I asked, handing one to him. We sat curled up close to one another, Flavio's lower lip protruding in an expression that was both frown and pout as he racked his brains for a solution.

"I'm going to go eavesdrop," he announced, so quietly that I barely heard him. "See if there's a reason for your being ignored. Will you be all right on your own?"

I nodded, accepting the pillow he handed to me.

"Just don't be too long, will you? You know I hate being left alone."

* * *

The 'problem,' Flavio told me twenty minutes later, was rather straightforward:

"Christophe's wife has been abducted."

I had been reading a small book extolling the virtues of obedience; it now fell to the smooth uncovered floorboards, its dry pages crackling.

"…_What_ did you just say?" I asked, certain I'd misheard him.

I hadn't.

"Madame d'Évignon; she's gone. Abducted by a highwayman, apparently."

A _highwayman?_ I could only stare.

"_Madame_ d'Évignon? A _highwayman_? Have we walked into a melodrama?"

"Pardon?" he queried, staring up at me in confusion. I ignored him.

"Are you trying to tell me…" I began, and stopped. "Are you trying to tell me that Christophe's… married?"

"But of course; why, didn't you know?"

"I… I…" I fumbled, squeezing a nearby pillow. _Of course,_ I realised stupidly, _he's an eighteenth-century aristocrat, and eldest heir; why wouldn't he be?_

"But…" I stuttered. "But – But - But he's never mentioned her… No one said—Oh God, Flavio—Does Nicolette—Do _I_—_know_ her?"

Flavio shrugged, kicking off his shoes before curling up on the bed, his head snuggled in my lap.

"Who knows?" he asked breezily as I absentmindedly curled his hair about my fingers.

"_You_ do… Don't you?" Flavio blinked and turned to look at me blankly.

"You _must_ do!—you _always_ do!—You're a Flavio, and Flavios know all!"

Flavio pursed his lips at this, wrinkled his forehead, and shook his head before telling me quite plainly that Christophe and Geneviève—for that was the name of Christophe's wife—had unexpectedly married just before Christophe's family had received news of Nicolette's disappearance (the source of his information, he briefly paused to tell me, was Bouchon, Christophe's valet and confidant) so no, I can express as much surprise as I wanted at her existence.

"Well that makes things so much easier," I replied, relieved. "You do have to pity Christophe though; first his sister was shipwrecked, and now his wife's been abducted. Where _is_ he, anyway?"

"Ah," Flavio answered pleasantly, "Even Bouchon is not privy to such information."

I smiled, and bent to retrieve my book before reclining on the bed, Flavio crawling up to curl beside me with his head resting on my stomach, mewling and purring like a contented kitten. Setting the book aside, my hand reached down to gently caress his hair, scooping up a handful of strands and watching them shimmer as they fell. It seemed to me as if his hair was an entire spectrum of yellow; a slight twirl, perhaps a toss, and a whole other shade was revealed. I was absolutely fascinated with watching his hair; almost as entranced as he was with my cleavage.

"Flavio, I thought you were afraid of them," I commented lazily.

My maid's body stiffened, and there was one awkward moment where I was certain he'd stopped breathing. Then he abruptly straightened, seized a pillow, and scurried down the mattress to curl up at my feet, the pillow pulled ostensibly over his head. I poked at him with my toe a few times, shrugged at the lacking response, and returned to my book.

After over an hour of respective reading and hiding, Flavio suddenly shot up, inadvertently throwing his pillow at me.

"Do you hear that?" he queried excitedly, back straightened and arms raised in a way that reminded me uncannily of a meerkat. Before I could answer him, he had bounded off the bed and scurried through the two doors that opened out onto a small balcony, looking eagerly down at the drive below.

"Are those hoof beats?" I asked, following him at a slower and far more graceful pace.

"Yes; there's a man on a horse with a rather dishevelled woman on _him_."

By now I was standing beside him, and glanced down to see a dark rider attempting to slow his steed and caress his russet-haired lover all at once. I wrinkled my nose and snorted, turning away from the passionate but revolting sight.

"Somehow I don't think Christophe will be _too_ upset when he hears of his missing wife," I remarked scathingly.

* * *

Except, of course, that the brown-haired woman dressed in a simple, dirtied, hastily-buttoned and rumpled but finely-made dress _was_ Geneviève d'Évignon; and therefore, it was safe to deduce that Christophe had been the abductive highwayman. In hindsight, I found it hard to believe that I hadn't guessed this sooner; I had seen him, hadn't I, skulking about the gardens, dressed from head to toe in dramatic black and looking rather handsome and smug and handsome again: He had all but _told_ me that he planned on riding, but had been rather evasive as to the destination: it was all so obvious…

Far from being relieved at this development, Governor Hale was incensed: his with heavily-accented French, interspersed with barely-comprehensible English, burst through walls and windows, echoing off of every plausible surface of his mansion: bellows of how worried both he and his wife had been, how they had dispatched messages to every military official in Kingston, how humiliated he would be at detracting these orders, and what was Christophe _thinking_? Oh, if Christophe had been a child, how thoroughly he would have birched him… Midway through his tirade, I had opened the door to find Lady Hale escorting the guilty but giggly Geneviève to what I assumed was her room. It seemed as though both women wished to be as far away from the source of noise as possible, and had seized upon the only legitimate reason available: bathing.

It goes without saying that the following supper was an awkward affair, with constrained small talk being the order of the evening: the Governor's verbal harangue had apparently sobered the affable Christophe, who sat sombrely beside his bathed and beautiful wife. Lady Hale sat at her husband's right hand, and I sat beside her: Paul had all but disappeared, leaving a note to say that he was visiting an unspecified friend for an unspecified amount of time, so his place had been taken by his mother, whilst his mother's place, the seat immediately to the Governor's left, was taken by Geneviève, who had generously decided to act as a barrier between her husband and his uncle. This meant that Christophe was directly opposite me, and throughout all four courses I fancied that he was staring at me; or at the very least attempting to catch my eye. I chose to remain silent, and my words, when I did speak, were deliberately short and clipped.

I honestly believe that Christophe was hurt by my cool silence; he certainly seemed unwilling to remain in my presence any longer than was necessary, citing an imaginary headache as reason for his abrupt departure. Geneviève remained long after he left, and when Governor and Lady Hale had retired to his study, apparently to discuss something of vital social importance, I was forced to accompany Geneviève to the parlour, where she sat before the harpsichord and improvised a pretty but simple little melody for my personal enjoyment.

"_I do hope you like it_," she said to me when the last metallic note had yielded to the gentle chirruping of cicadas. She struck me as being a little older than myself, perhaps even the same age, and very, very pretty: She was not, however, beautiful in the way that I would usually define the word; that is, hers was not the striking, glamorous sort of beauty that you tend to associate with Hollywood starlets or fashion darlings (as I did have very high standards when it came to such things).

Her hair was a medium-light brown, with only a limited range of highlights and lowlights; her skin wasn't marble-white, at least not without powder, but it was pale, pinking girlishly at her cheeks. Her eyes were large and brown, the lids perhaps a little too heavy, giving her the appearance of doleful sleepiness; but the expression in them were very warm, and forever amicable. Her lips were small, red, and puckered like a child's; they turned up slightly at the edges, which gave the immediate impression that she was always smiling; it was only when two small dimples appeared in each pink cheek that an onlooker knew for sure that this was so. I obviously can't describe much of her body, hidden as it was beneath her hoops and various pastel layers, but I could see enough to tell that she was slender, and I knew that had it not been for the corset, her curves would have been rather limited.

To be perfectly honest, she didn't seem at all an appropriate match for the dark, confident, conventionally handsome Christophe: And yet, she clearly must have had an adventurous side hidden beneath her quiet and demure exterior; she did, after all, allow herself to be 'kidnapped' by her husband, and they must have made love in the grass _at least_ once on their leisurely journey to the Hales' home. Hardly the behaviour of a quiet little… prude.

That being said, I could sense that she seemed eager to impress me, no doubt for her husband's sake: Thus, I was resolved to hate her. The image of a masked Christophe doing something as romantic as sweeping his wife from under her guardians' noses and then ravishing her beneath the shade of a nearby palm tree seemed wasted on a timid brown mouse like Geneviève.

"_Are you and my brother very much in love?_" I blurted out harshly; from the look on her face, I guessed this wasn't the usual response she received for her playing.

"_Well, I—I like to think that we are, yes,_" she stuttered in the manner of one caught completely off-guard.

"_Really. Well if you don't mind my asking, exactly why is it then that you gallivanted off to some sort of high-societal soirée with your aunt and uncle, leaving your beloved husband alone but for his cousin?_"

"_Because, Mademoiselle—my husband wished to remain here, waiting for news of your return._"

I crossed my arms and glowered at this; a perfectly reasonable answer to a perfectly unreasonable question. But at least her docility had been confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"_I see,_" I said, feeling my cheeks heating in embarrassment at my obvious jealousy. Snapping my fan shut, I rose from my seat; dutifully, Geneviève rose with me, straightening her pale pink skirts in anticipation of a curtsy.

"_I'm feeling a little light-headed,_" I said to her. "_Bonsoir, Madame._"

"_Y-Yes,_" she stuttered quietly. "_Thank you for your time, Mademoiselle._"

Reaching the door, I paused to cast her one final, lingering look; she was still standing beside the harpsichord, her hands clasped primly over her rose-tinted skirts, watching me with a gentle understanding that, frankly, quite unnerved me.

I burst into my room, the door crashing sickeningly against the wall, causing Flavio to yelp and drop his hairbrush.

"Why is Si-Si so very angry?" he queried childishly as I stood before him and demanded he undress me.

I hesitated before answering: the truth was, I hadn't had sex in a very long time (just under two weeks, in fact), and the thought of the impish, mischievous, _handsome_ Christophe making playful, passionate love to a woman who, quite frankly, looked more suited to lying there with her eyes closed as she thought dutifully of England—France, rather—only served to highlight this fact. That Geneviève very clearly _did not_ undertake a passive role during conjugal relations only served to further my frustration.

"Geneviève," I scowled. "She irritates me." Which wasn't far from the truth.

"Why, what did she do?"

"She—" I began moodily, and stopped, snapping my jaw shut. "Well she—" Again, I couldn't think of a single word or action to justify my loathing of her.

"She's _French_," I settled, knowing as I did that at this time the English very much viewed their imminent European neighbours with contempt and disdain; they were, after all, caught in a race of who-can-bring-the-entire-world-under-the-unrelenting-yoke-of-imperialistic-oppression-first.

"Oh come now, that's hardly fair—" Flavio began, but was interrupted by Governor Hale's unexpected bellow of:

"WHERE IS MY **BLOODY** CHANDELIER?"

**-x!x-**


	17. Subconscious Tea Party

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Sixteen:** Subconscious Tea Party_

The moment Governor Hale was told of the ambiguous fate of the missing chandelier, all hell broke loose: if he had been angry at Christophe's little 'trick' of kidnapping his wife, it did not compare to the burning fury that flashed in his brown eyes as one by one he summoned the entire household—from his elegant, aristocratic wife to the lowliest slave—to his personal study. Christophe did not find the idea of facing the Governor's wrath a second time (at least not so soon, anyway) appealing; to such an extent that, when the Governor's clerk appeared in the parlour to express his master's desire for an audience with his nephew, my brother very gallantly suggested me instead.

"_We both have blue eyes and brown hair, and besides, there is very little difference between nightshirts for men and those for women,_" he said to me persuasively as he pulled me along by the elbow. I shuddered as he glanced at the long, shapeless shirt I wore beneath my lightly-flowered dressing-gown; although it was perhaps a little early to be going to bed, it did feel nice to wear something loose in the Caribbean heat. "_Hopefully he'll be so incensed over the stolen chandelier that he won't even notice that you're not actually me._"

To be fair, I could see the reasoning in his suggestion; the two of us looked a little similar, and I suppose that if Christophe was to change into a nightshirt and let his hair down, we _would_ look alike. If you ignore the fact that Christophe's shoulders were broader than mine, and the slight rising of my chest that was my bosom. Oh, and his jaw was a little stronger, whilst mine was feminine and delicate, and his eyebrows, whilst possessing the same elegant arch that mine had, were certainly a little darker and thicker…

We abruptly stopped walking, thus pulling me out of my thoughts.

"_Here we are,_" Christophe told me, in surprisingly good cheer. "_Uncle's study._"

I looked up at him from under my lashes, swallowing before I voiced what I had been thinking our whole walk from the parlour in which the Governor's entire immediate family awaited their turn.

"Christophe," I said, smiling a little as I reached up to trace the curve of his cheek. Was it my imagination, or did he shudder? Not much, but just a little bit… "Christophe; oh, _Christophe… This isn't going to work._"

"_Don't say that,_" he pleaded; "_Nicolette…_" he whined as I gave him my most doubtful look. "_Look, you be me and I'll—I'll… buy you something. Please?_" he added. Before I could answer, he cheerfully continued, "_Thank you; you're a wonderful sister. Good luck._"

And then he kissed me.

I felt my body stiffen in shock; I had been raising my head, about to voice another French protest, and he had very clearly been aiming for my cheek but … But…

Well, why didn't he pull away?

As if sensing my thoughts, Christophe promptly broke our contact; when I looked at his face, he didn't seem at all flustered, or embarrassed. It had been a genuine mistake on his part, I realised, and he clearly didn't feel it necessary to apologise. Instead, Christophe tilted my head down, his lips pressing against my forehead; to add insult to injury, he even ruffled my hair, as though I were an eight-year-old child…

"_In you go,_" he said, and I squeaked as he opened the door and unceremoniously pushed me through it. The door slammed shut, and I assumed that he was hurrying as quickly as possible to return to the parlour, where Geneviève waited.

Shaking my head, I slowly turned from the door, taking in Governor Hale, fully-dressed and seated behind his desk, scribbling something no doubt chandelier-related on a scrap of parchment in the flickering candlelight. By the time he had set his quill down and raised his eyes to mine, I had quietly recomposed myself after Christophe's accidental gesture in the doorway.

"Wh—Ah, Nicola," he greeted as he saw that it was his niece who had entered; I wrinkled my nose at the way his eyes had briefly darted to my covered chest, as though to confirm that it really _was_ a woman standing before him dressed in only her nightwear.

"Nicolette," I corrected in a manner that I hoped was not impertinent. The Governor nodded at my correction, waving away his mild mistake from his comfortable seat behind his desk. He was not an impressive man, as far as impressive men go: I would say he was of average height, with middling shoulders and a slightly protruding paunch gently straining against his embroidered waistcoat. Atop his head lay a large wig of pale chestnut; in an odd way it complemented his sunken eyes and drooping, sallow jowls. He must have been at least fifty, perhaps even sixty; certainly too old to be holding the title of Governor for much longer. I would later learn that in Hale's case, _Governor_ was something of a courtesy title; although he did in fact wield the highest power on the island of Jamaica, Hale was a man who had long since decided to hand all official duties to younger, more able men.

"_I was expecting your brother,_" he told me. "_Fetch him for me, won't you? A young lady such as yourself can't be expected to concern herself with such matters._"

Was there a carefully veiled insult there? I gave an awkward bob of a curtsy and promptly left, entering the parlour and announcing that, really, Christophe was the man Governor Hale wished to speak to. My brother winced, and I saw him turn to his wife, apparently about to ask her if she could go instead, hesitate as he looked in her eyes, and slowly stand. I turned away at the sight and scurried back up to my room as fast I could, where I tore off my dressing-gown, flopped onto the bed, and waited with my arms sullenly crossed for Flavio to return from his own interview.

"She has a stupid face!" I blurted out the moment the door opened.

"…Pardon?"

"Geneviève," I said crossly. "She looks like an idiot—a happy, grinning, submissive idiot—and _that_ is why I don't like her."

"…And what does this have to do with the missing chandelier?" Flavio queried as he closed the door gently behind him.

"Oh, screw the chandelier," I waved away. "Flavio, we have the pressing matter of my inbred sister-in-law to attend to."

"Inbred? Sierra, this jealousy of yours—"

"_Jealousy_?" I interrupted. "Who said anything about _jealousy_?"

"W-Well, you do _like_ Christophe, don't you?" he asked me. "In a way that… that… is not entirely becoming of a sister?"

I opened and closed my mouth several times; for some reason, the idea of Flavio knowing of my little incestuous crush caused my gut to twist and writhe in discomfort.

"I… I… _I'm_ going to go to bed now," I said uneasily. "Are you going to join me, Flavio, or is it a little too early for you?"

Flavio shook his fair head. "No," he answered; "No; I think I'll go out to the erm… outside…" He gestured vaguely in the general direction of the balcony. "Catch the night air, create chipmunks out of stars…"

I gently chuckled at this.

"Alright; goodnight Flavio."

I didn't fall asleep straight away, but when I eventually did (whilst Flavio was still out stargazing), I found myself having an all-too familiar dream…

* * *

"Oh, for _God's_ sake!" I screeched as I traipsed unhappily through the field of blinding green, my white skirts pulled above my ankles. "This is ridiculous! Why am I having the same dream over and over and over again? Are you trying to tell me something? Is all this sparrow-squashing some insane metaphor for—weight loss? A desire to go back to university? Or a belated regret for willingly partaking in prostitution?—_What?_"

There was only an eerie silence, which was odd, considering how in my previous dreams, there was always the unrelenting presence of haunting birdsong. I furrowed my brow at this, suddenly unnerved; dropping my skirts, I wrapped my arms protectively about myself, and trailed carefully along. After some time of careful walking, I eventually came across something… _alive_.

Sort of.

At first glance, it looked like any other run-of-the-mill tea party; a low round table, chairs, occupants, cups and saucers. The occupants of the table ranged from life-sized teddy bears to fluffy pink rabbits so small that several were sharing a seat. The young hostess's back was turned to me, chatting amicably away to her lifeless guests as she poured imaginary liquid into empty cups, but I could tell—somehow, I _knew_—that she was a child of exceptional beauty. She was wearing a simple, elegant dress tied with an ivory silk sash, all glowing flawless white—you'd think that living in an endlessly sunny meadow would leave at least _one_ grass stain. Her hair fell to her waist, straight but for a slight curl at the tips; a glistening waterfall of ebony that began at some point beneath the brim of her straw hat, trimmed with blue. For a child, I found her arms to be rather slender, and very pale, disappearing beneath the short gentle puffs of her silk-trimmed sleeves.

"…And would Mister Bigglesworth like one sugar or two?" she was chirruping with bubbly courtesy as I carefully approached. "Oh hello Si-Si! We didn't think that you would join us—have a seat." Her small, delicate hand gestured vaguely at a low chair piled with lace-edged napkins; this was clearly a child of some refinement.

Very nervously, I moved to the proffered seat, scooping the cloth squares up onto an empty space at the table. The chair, as I said, was low, a child's chair, and I had to bend my legs to such an extent that I could easily rest my chin on my knees. When I had made myself as comfortable as it was possible, I raised my eyes to the girl's face, and smiled.

"Hello, Pearl."

The words were spoken softly, as light and insignificant as the flap of a butterfly's wing; but she heard me regardless, raising her head to beam brightly at me. Her face, I now saw, was radiant; she had always been pale, but now her skin had adopted the cold, smooth perfection of marble, supernaturally luminous beneath the overcasting shadow of her hat. She didn't say a single word, simply looking at me with such untouchable tranquillity that for a moment I doubted whether this girl could possibly be the same as the lively, animated creature I had met in Tortuga.

At a loss, I asked what was perhaps the most redundant question of all time:

"Is this a dream?"

Her angelic serenity was quickly shattered; her glistening eyes turned heavenwards before disappearing beneath her feathery lashes as she groaned in exasperation.

"_Of course_ it's a dream," she told me in such a patronising tone of voice that I knew at once she really was Pearl. "Do you _really_ think that, had this not been a dream, I would willingly be serving _air_ to an anachronistic collection of inanimate and uninvited toys that I have never before seen nor mingled with in my entire life, just so I can fulfil a silly little cliché that will have you squealing at the infinite, immeasurable, and incontestable adorability of my small and special selfness?"

"Well, yes."

Pearl pouted and turned away with a huffed, "No tea for _you_ then." I smiled and, rising slightly from my seat, reached out to clasp Pearl to me in an inescapable hug.

"My teapot!" she squealed, horrified as it clattered to the grass beside us. Her worry soon vanished as she immediately returned the gesture, burying her face deep into my bodice as her hands gripped at my hair. I pressed my nose as deep into her hair as I could, inhaling the addictive perfume that was Pearl's scent. In an attempt to pull her ever closer, I fell out of my seat with a yelp that was only drowned out by the sound of Pearl's squeak; we collapsed onto the grass in a tangle of arms and skirts, Pearl lying completely on top of me, still clutched tightly to my neck.

"Are you… really here?" I said at last when my excitement had faded enough for me to create a coherent sentence.

I felt her sniffle against my skin as she silently shook her head; her reply only caused me to grip her ever tighter, determined not to let this… ghost, this last trace of Pearl, slip away.

"I should have known that you weren't really you," I said at last, pushing off her hat and lazily twisting her hair about my fingers. "Your hair was never this long alive."

"Does hair grow after death then, Si-Si?"

"No, honey."

"Oh."

There was such soft disappointment in that single syllable that I was overcome with the urge to kiss her. Lifting her carefully off of my chest, I sat up and, uncaring of the strands of grass I knew had twisted into my hair, bent down to plant a loving kiss on her forehead as my arms encircled her in a gentler, but no less possessive, embrace.

"Look at you," I murmured when I had pulled away, unable to keep the tears out of my voice. "You look so… peaceful. At rest."

"And in a way, Si-Si… I am," she responded candidly, and her eyes, though glittering, seemed oddly still and serene. Alive, she had always looked like a delicate china doll—if you could get her to stand still for long enough, that is. Now though, I could see that death had transformed her into one: not once had I seen her blink.

And as I watched her watching me watching her, I was struck with the most terrible thought that had ever crossed my mind: that perhaps it was a _good thing_ that she had died so prematurely, if her unparalleled beauty, her unsurpassed vivacity could be preserved. Had she lived a full life, her looks would have faded, withering away like a sonnet, inked on durable parchment, fades, until one had to squint to simply see the weakened shadows of words. And old age would have stripped her of her contagious, youthful verve, until she was simply a shrivelled, sapless shell; tired, lethargic, spending her monotonous days simply waiting for death to come for her, at last. Perhaps it was better this way…

The dark vapidity of this thought made me shiver in disgust; I had to bury my face into her shoulder for fear of her reading it in my eyes. Though try as I might, I couldn't suppress the shudder that wracked my body; I just couldn't believe that I had thought, justified and articulated, for more than a fleeting moment, that it was a good thing Pearl had died.

"Si-Si?" I heard her ask, feeling her beautiful, lifeless eyes looking down at me worriedly. "What's wrong with my Si-Si?"

"…You were far too young to die." I honestly didn't know whether I was speaking more to her or to myself.

Needless to say, I was more than a little surprised to hear her snort in amusement; such a graceless, unladylike gesture that she seemed almost human.

"What?" I asked her as the snort was soon followed by an ongoing snicker. "What? What's so amusing?"

"Silly Si-Si—Why did you assume I was dead?"

I stared at her, blank and uncomprehending as her words echoed in my ears: _Why did you assume I was dead?_

"Well, you _are_… Aren't you?"

She fluttered her lashes at me in mock bewilderment.

"Am I?"

"…Yes?"

Another snort; "Oh! Silly little Si-Si…" she giggled with a shake of her head. I felt her reach down to take my hand in both of hers, her slender fingers gently stroking my upturned palm.

"Now why would Si-Si ever think such a horrible and untrue thing?" she asked me in a soothing, patronising manner. "Tell Pearl all about it."

I bit my lip, uncertain of where to start. Clucking her tongue impatiently, Pearl decided to throw me a line, as they say.

"Did Si-Si _see_ Pearl get killified?" she queried innocently.

"Wh—No…" I looked down at our intertwined hands, noting how comforting it was to have her hold me in this way. "I was… You were…" A pause as I swallowed an unexpected lump in my throat. "But I did see your body…" I whispered quietly, as though afraid that she would shrivel into the mutilated corpse I had seen and had tried so hard to forget.

"Oh you saw my _body_, did you?" she parroted, and I knew she was rolling her eyes. "So you saw my body and _assumed_ I was dead, is that it?"

Slowly, I nodded.

"Yes…"

"Oh, Si-Si!" she tutted, reaching up to playfully swat my nose as she shook her head in exasperation. "Si-Si, Si-Si, Si-Si, Si-Si, _Si-Si_…"

"What?" I asked as she continued to chant my name and look at me as though I was an incredibly slow child.

"You saw my _body_—you and I both know that you saw my body—but did you ever see my _face_?"

"Well of course I—" My voice died an abrupt death as her exasperated question finally sunk in. Because of course, I _hadn't_. And I explained to her why. "Your face… it was mutilated, trampled beyond recognition… By a horse, I think; I…"

"So if Si-Si didn't see Pearl's face," she interjected with maddening confidence, "How could Si-Si know that the little girl Si-Si _thought_ was Pearl was actually Pearl?"

"Well—" I spluttered, too shocked by the implications of her words to speak. The girl's body flashed suddenly before me; her dress had been stained with mud and blood, making it impossible to have identified its original colour, especially in the limited candlelight. The same thing applied to her hair, and I recalled with vivid clarity that there was a slight curl to it that Pearl's locks had never possessed. I hadn't really thought much of it at the time—hadn't truly _noticed_ it, in fact—but now I couldn't help but wonder…

Then I remembered a little trinket that Jack now wore tightly around his wrist, and my hopes were dashed.

"She had the necklace…" I said aloud.

"Pardon?"

"Your necklace," I repeated, my fingers brushing gently at her unadorned throat. "The black pearl, on the string? Something Jack brought back for you, long before we met."

She wrinkled her little nose in irritation, miffed at this latest development. "Was I—_she_—wearing it?"

"No; you had it in your hand. We thought—the theory was—that you dropped it and were picking it up, and then some horse and cart—"

"I didn't even realise it had fallen off," Pearl interrupted once more, though I felt that she was speaking more to herself. "Si-Si, didn't you ever think it possible that _someone else_ might have picked it up instead? I have to focus my mind on other things besides cheap little trinkets Papa brought back as a last-minute birthday gift! Have you _any_ idea how much effort it takes to look this small and sweet and bouncy _all_ the time? It's certainly not completely natural!"

I wanted so much to hope that what she claimed was true; that she was alive, that there was a mistake, that, that…

"If you _are_ indeed alive," I countered, though I couldn't hide how my voice was quivering with excitement, "then how come you're here, talking to me?"

"_**BECAUSE!**_" Pearl exploded with such passion that I flinched and shrank back. "_Because_, Si-Si, I am a figment of your long-suffering subconscious, and I am merely telling you what you already know! Or have you failed to notice that all of my reasoning for my argument comes from what _you_, not _me_, have seen with your own two eyes? And I though you were _clever_!" she huffed, crossing her arms and rocking back on her haunches.

"…Oh," I replied, and she nodded, wrinkling her nose as she did so.

"Yes," she sulked, her apparent irritation at my dimness only growing with each syllable I uttered. "Now do you understand?"

Slowly, dumbly, I nodded.

"I should have known that I gave up on you too soon," I informed her guiltily, pausing only to correct myself: "No, _we_ gave up on you; Jack and I. Oh Pearl, I'm so sorry!"

"Don't apologise to _me_," the girl snapped sullenly. "Apologise to the real Pearl, when you find her. You _are_ going to find me, aren't you?" she added sharply as I hesitated.

"You know I want to, Pearl," I began slowly. "Of course you do, you're a figment of my imagination. I just don't know how; I don't have the faintest idea where I could even begin to look for you. You're still in Kingston, right?"

"Can you think of another place I could go? Or even how to get there? Oh, Si-Si," she crooned, her face softening at my expression. Smiling, she reached up her small hand to gently caress my cheek. "You look so confused; you look like you're going to cry…"

"Tears of joy, I assure you," I sniffled, dabbing at my eyes and flashing her a shaky smile. But the truth was that I was suddenly full of fear and loathing: if what this Pearl, this figment, said was true, then Jack and I had left her to roam the streets of Kingston completely alone and unprotected. The primary reason Jack had taken her out of Tortuga made me shudder in recollection; I couldn't even begin to contemplate what horror might have befallen her here. As my imagination supplied me one horrifying image after another, that same thought plagued me once more; that perhaps Pearl would have been better off dead…

But if Pearl was alive… If Pearl was alive, how would I find her? It would be horrible if my efforts at locating her had concluded in vain, when all along she was huddled in the shadow of a crumbling building I had simply breezed past, too terrified to move or call for help. But then I remembered Jack's friend, Mr Forrester, and how he and his wife took in orphaned and abandoned children; surely there were many other citizens as kind, as charitable as him? A middle-aged spinster, perhaps, who couldn't resist offering a pair of bright blue eyes food and shelter? I could only hope.

"Si-Si's having a lot of thoughts now, isn't she?" Pearl's sweet voice sang to me. "Good; let Si-Si have her thoughts. But Pearl thinks that it's only polite to let Si-Si know that she must wake up now."

**-x!x-**


	18. Spelling Mistakes

****

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

__

Chapter Seventeen: Spelling Mistakes

"Flavio," I said quietly as he laced me into my corset the next morning, "Flavio, I have to escape."

"Escape?"

"Just for today."

"Escape from what?"

"From being Nicolette."

"Might I enquire as to the whyness of this sudden and, dare I say it, ill-advised decision? Breathe in."

Inhaling masked my hesitancy and indecision; my lips parted in a silent gasp as Flavio cinched my waist in a few more inches than was comfortable. "Sorry," he grunted, loosening the garment as was necessary and flicking my hair over my shoulder as he worked.

"I had a dream," I told him casually as he carefully pulled the laces ever tighter.

"Oh, it's not the bird one again, is it?"

I shook my head, bit my lip, then plunged in; "I dreamt that Pearl was alive." I yelped as he suddenly yanked on my corset so hard that the circumference of my waist suddenly narrowed to nineteen inches, at the most.

"Flavio!"

"…Sorry," he said meekly. "It's just that, you know… I mean, you're willing to risk exposing your identity and being thrown into gaol, if the Hales are merciful—and all because of a _dream_? She's dead, Sierra," he added, his voice one of caressing tenderness.

I shook my head as he carefully loosened the boned garment. "But she might not be," I argued, turning to glance over my shoulder at him. "Flavio, I dreamed… I dreamed that… The dream showed me that there's a chance that she might… not be…"

His hands left the small of my back, where the laces tied, to gently trace my arms until I felt his hands resting on each of my shoulders, indicating that his job was done.

"Sierra," he whispered, leaning close, close enough for his breath to brush against my ear, "Sierra, it's not worth it."

"Don't say that," I snapped, whirling about to face him and clutching at my abdomen as mild vertigo temporarily claimed me. "Flavio, you didn't have the dream…" And with these words, I proceeded to explain everything to him, stressing time and time again that I _never saw her face._

"…It's certainly an interesting theory, Sierra," Flavio said at last after a contemplative silence, and I nodded violently in agreement.

"And it is plausible… But if you were going to look for her, exactly where would you even begin? Kingston is not what one would call a small place."

I smiled weakly; I had thought about this dilemma since abruptly waking at the crack of dawn, and I believed I had found a solution. "I just need to find Mr Forrester—Jack's old friend, the one he wanted to drop Pearl off with," I added as his mouth began to open. "I think that if I can talk to him, ask him to arrange a search party—I'm sure he will—We might be able to find her soon enough."

"And what if he wants a reward for all his hard work?" Flavio queried innocently. "A _monetary_ reward?"

I hesitated; from the little I've seen of him, I didn't think he would. But just in case… "Charity," I decided on at last; "He runs an orphanage with his wife; I'm a leisured French aristocrat; it makes perfect sense, and it certainly wouldn't arouse any suspicions… But the more immediate problem," I brushed on as his lips once again began to part, "is how do I leave here, alone—I mean with _you_, of course—without…"

"Arousing suspicions," Flavio completed for me.

"Well, yes. Any ideas, Flavio?"

A smile quirked his lips as he nodded slowly.

"I have one; it's very simple and highly unoriginal, which is why I think it would work…"

* * *

"_Aunt, Uncle; Christophe…_" I began after about twenty minutes seated primly at the breakfast table, ignoring Geneviève, "_I was wondering if I might visit the dressmaker today._"

Christophe's head fell forward with a groan. "_Weren't they here only yesterday?_"

"_Well, yes,_" I allowed, continuing undaunted, "_But I think it best to visit them, to ensure that they're progressing satisfactorily. My greatest fear is that they'll create something utterly _horrendous_ and then have the gall to ask me to pay for it! You know what these tailors are like._"

Christophe's head, which had returned to its normal position, once again fell forward in something like inevitable resignation.

"_And of course, we can't leave you to make such an outing unescorted._" He spoke as though reciting a speech, and I realised that he was only going through the motions, now that his aunt and uncle had returned; had we still been alone, he would have left me to my own devices.

No wonder Nicolette was kidnapped in the first place.

"_My maid, Jeanne-Louise, will suffice as chaperone,_" I assured him sweetly, and that would have been that—or so I liked to believe—had the recently-discovered bane of my existence not put forward a suggestion of her own:

"_My husband is too selfless; I, of course, will be more than willing to play the role of duenna,_" Geneviève piped up with a smile so sweet that I was overcome with the urge to hit her.

"_But Geneviève, you must rest!_" Christophe's protest was voiced politely enough, but I think we all knew that _resting_ was the furthest thing from his mind. The brunette turned her saccharine smile onto her husband, and I felt my stomach twist in jealousy. "_And besides,_" he continued as Governor Hale snorted into his morning whisky whilst the wife dabbed delicately at her lips with a lace-trimmed napkin the better to disguise a knowing smile, "_Besides, Nicolette would rather shop alone, wouldn't you, mignon? God knows she'll have time to herself once the Swanns arrive._"

Had I been a rational person, I would, of course, have said yes, I would love to be alone, for I was a solitary creature by nature; perhaps I might have even asked who the Swanns were, and what were they arriving for, so as to deflect from my eagerness.

As it was, my jealousy temporarily overcame me, to such an extent that I immediately snapped, "_No Christophe, I'm afraid that Geneviève _must_ come with me! I've yet to truly get to know my sister-in-law, you know._"

My knife and fork clattered to my plate as I immediately covered my mouth; my relatives probably assumed that it was because I was shocked of the vehemence of my outburst, but at that moment I felt only a sinking horror as I realised exactly what I had done. Even so, I did do my best to salvage the situation:

"_That is, if my sister would still… If she would… like to…_" I faltered, turning towards her, and repressed a groan at the delighted flush of familial acceptance that now stained her pretty cheeks red. "_Excusez-moi,_" I said, and abruptly left the breakfast table.

* * *

"That _meddlesome_—_infuriating_—smiling French _bitch_!" I snarled the moment I slammed my bedroom door shut, causing Flavio, who had been playing dress-up, to eep and dive behind the changing-screen.

"I-I thought that you would still be eating," he stuttered as I kicked off my shoes and threw my fuming self onto the mattress.

"Oh, don't change the subject," I snapped, crossing my arms and glowering sulkily. There were a few minutes of mumbled muttering, the rustling of cloths, and then Flavio emerged dressed in the striped blue attire of a maid's hand-me-downs, a crumpled yellow dress slung over his arm, his fair hair framing his face like a halo. He looked so much like an angel—and a female one at that—that for a moment I could only stare in awe.

"Is Sierra quite alright?" he questioned timidly, his violet eyes wide with childish wonder; his words prompted me to blink and shake my head, adjusting my whale-boned bodice as I sat up.

"Do you remember, Flavio, last night, when you said to me that I had no _real_ reason to hate Geneviève?" I queried coolly, and he nodded. "Well, now I do."

"Oh, really?" Flavio quirked his eyebrow. "And what might that be?"

I inhaled deeply in preparation, then swung my legs over the side so that I was facing him.

"I accidentally extended to her an invitation to go shopping with me today and – and—would you believe this!—she had the gall to _accept_."

Flavio pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at my announcement.

"She accepted an invitation that _you_ extended?" he asked, and I nodded vigorously.

"I know! Can you believe it? She's deliberately sabotaging our arrangements for the day!—Why, thanks to _her_, our whole plan of visiting Forrester is _ruined_—"

"I hate to be pedantic, Sierra, but weren't _you_ the one who asked _her_—"

"Oh for God's sake, whose side are you on?" I glared, and he immediately quieted down, his hands rising in surrender. "The point is that now _she's_ tagging along, I won't be able to freely speak English; and you, Flavio, being a French and thoroughly uneducated maid, can't play the role of omniscient translator either. So now we'll never be able to find Pearl, and—"

Pearl; just saying her name made all the rage within me disappear, and I found my shoulders slumping in worry at what might have happened to her. Truth be told, there was perhaps another reason I so eagerly chose to despise Geneviève; as long as there was something, or rather, some_one_, I could focus my anger upon, my grief, and the cause of it, could easily be pushed to the back of my mind, temporarily forgotten.

But all that was about to change; it _had to_.

"But Sierra," Flavio was saying gently, "there is still a very likely chance that she—"

"She is _not_!" I snapped, glad to have my fury (temporarily) rekindled. "Flavio, there's a very good chance that Pearl is _alive_—and don't you _dare_ suggest otherwise."

Flavio was silent, continuing to look at me with undisguised pity; such was the intensity of his woeful gaze that I found myself swallowing and nervously looking away.

"So," he said at last, breaking the silence that had fallen between us, "how do you propose we rid ourselves of Geneviève?"

I smiled, glad to have something mundane on which to focus my thoughts upon. "Well we can't abandon her alone to roam the streets of Kingston unescorted," I said to him thoughtfully; "Not only would that be dangerous to her safety and wellbeing, it's also just downright rude."

"I'm glad to hear that," my maid nodded, flopping down beside me, his chest (or lack thereof) firmly covered by a thick swaddling of fabric. "Si-Si has a heart." I reached up for a pillow and swatted at him, causing Flavio to giggle.

"So what _do_ you suggest we do then?" he asked.

"It's very simple," I explained, jumping to my feet and scurrying to the as of yet unused desk; there was a moment of silence as my eyes scanned its smooth, flat surface, brightening as I spotted the object I sought. Seizing the quill, I spun around and proudly announced,

"I plan on writing her an insulting note."

Flavio tilted his head and furrowed his smooth brow at me, clearly perplexed at my chosen course of action.

* * *

"Well you spelt her name wrong, for a start," he said to me seventeen minutes later, handing back my letter.

"What do you mean, I spelt her name wrong?" I asked, violently snatching the parchment from his fingers. "That's how you spell Genevieve; G-E-N-E-V-I-E-V-E."

"Yes, but whilst helping to clear Christophe's room, I came across their marriage certificate, and her name isn't spelt like that, Sierra."

"There's only one way to spell Genevieve," I insisted, pointing at the name on the page, "And it's spelt like _that_."

"Yes, but when I saw it written down, it had a line over the E," Flavio insisted.

"A line?" I questioned, confused.

"Yeah; it flicked down like that," he indicated with his finger.

"Oh, an accent."

"No accent, just a line."

"I hate to be pedantic Flavio, but the line is… Never mind. Which E?"

"_The_ E."

"There's more than one E in Genevieve, Flavio."

"_That_ E."

"What, the second to last? _That_ E?"

"Yes."

"Alright; and was it an acute accent, or a grave accent?"

"Neither, it was a _line_."

"…Uh huh. Flavio, can you show me how to spell her name here?" I pulled out a scrap of parchment I had been using to blot the quill after dipping it in the inkpot and pushed it towards him, frowning when I saw him flinch and recoil, staring at the materials set before him in grave apprehension. I saw him swallow—this inconsequential action made me suddenly realise that he didn't have an Adam's apple, or if he did, not much of one—and then take the seat I was offering to him. After that, he simply stared uncomprehendingly at the blank(ish) page before him. I thought it wise to hang back, silent.

He wrote slowly, forehead furrowed as though each stroke required great concentration; when he handed the paper back to me, I could barely make out the letters, disfigured as they were by droplets of black ink. Not only that, but his handwriting was large, shaky, awkward and childish, and when he wrote, the quill was clutched upright in his fist, rather than slanted gently toward him.

"Flavio," I asked, "I don't mean to offend you, but were you ever taught to write?"

"I-I can read _fine_."

"There's a difference between reading and writing; were you?"

Flavio shrugged his slender shoulders. "I hadn't had need to use a pen in over ten years, Sierra; the paperwork piracy requires is minimal at most."

"But you—" I began, and stopped, frowning. I was about to say, _But you draw so well,_ recalling as I did those pornographic depictions of Jack I still had stashed away somewhere. But then again, I suppose there was also a difference between writing and drawing.

"Well fair enough," I said instead, deciding to shrug the entire scene away. "So it's a, um, a grave accent, is it?"

"What, the line? Um yes, I – I suppose it is a, um… graph accent."

"_Grave,_" I repeated, writing the word phonetically down beneath the correctly-spelt Geneviève. "It's spelt G-R-A-V-E, like grave, but it's pronounced grahv. And acute is as it sounds—A-C-U-T-E. I'm sorry for being so nitpicky, but one of my tutors, Ms Hernandez, used to make me stay behind half an hour longer than the other girls every afternoon until I could name, spell, and draw possibly every diacritic that has ever been conceived in the history of the Roman alphabet. She was an evil bitch, and that's why I don't speak Spanish."

"…I think you may have gotten off topic, Sierra."

"Sorry, I babble; you might have noticed that. Is that someone at the door?" I rapidly changed subject as I heard a solid knock. "Flavio, go get it."

"No! Ever since we've moved here, you've been telling me to do _every little thing_—"

"That's 'cause you're my _maid_, Flavio; now get the damn door!"

Flavio rose from his seat and trotted to the door in a sulk, eventually revealing a radiant Geneviève clad in a dress of powder-blue, Christophe hovering possessively at her elbow.

"_Oh Nicolette, are you quite alright? You left the table in such a hurry…_"A nice enough gesture, had it been sincere; a moment of polite silence later, and all pretences at sisterly concern were immediately abandoned:

"_Never mind that, you seem healthy enough,_" she generously dismissed; "_I've such good news!_" she bubbled whilst Christophe eyed Flavio in a way that made my jaw clench. "_Our cousin Paul has just returned, and at your brother's suggestion, he's kindly offered to accompany you on your little shopping expedition. I know you wished that I would come with you, and truth be told, I'd prefer it if I did, but your brother is feeling most unwell, and as his wife, I _must_ stay and nurse him._" She nodded her brown head vigorously, as though this one single action would lend validation to her terribly-told lie.

"_Paul?_" I gasped, stumbling back. How could this have happened so quickly? Barely five minutes ago she was flushing with excitement at the prospect of going shopping with her sister-in-law; now she couldn't wait to be rid of me. I glanced at Christophe, narrowing my eyes at the way he was watching her; I could tell that he obviously _persuaded_ her into changing her mind.

"_Yes,_" Geneviève prattled on, clearly unaware of my hawkish gaze; "_he claims to have missed you terribly, whilst staying with his friend—What was his name? Rochester?_" She turned towards her husband as though seeking verification; he shrugged as though he didn't give a toss either way. "_After he's bathed and changed into something more presentable, he'll knock on your door and—_"

"_I _can_ just go alone, you know,_" I interjected, and Geneviève's eyes widened in concern.

"_Nonsense! Do you think it wise to brave the streets alone so soon after being recovered from your abductors? A male chaperon would be far better for your protection, anyway,_" she brushed my protest away. Christophe chose this moment to emit a particularly loud cough, and Geneviève's doe eyes immediately turned to glance at her husband in mock concern.

"_Well I'm afraid we must take our leave of you now, sister,_" she said distractedly to me, pulling her husband away by the hand. "_Do have fun, won't you?_"

I flew across the room so that I could slam the door before Flavio had the chance to gently close it.

"That bitch!" I screeched at my maid, who motioned with his hands to quieten down, "Mocking me with that 'Please have fun shopping and try not to think of me making uninhibited love with one of the most handsome men you've ever laid eyes on' smile! She's willing to give up _shopping_ for _sex_? Well then, she's not even a _woman_! She's like—a _man_!"

"Sierra," Flavio interjected, "just calm down and _breathe_…"

I placed a hand on my bodice and nodded in agreement, feeling my chest rising rapidly as I took quick, shallow breaths. But honestly—_shopping_ for _sex_? What was _wrong_ with her?

"I still can't believe she's decided to give up shopping for… conjugal relations. They're married; they should only be copulating in hope of a child, _nothing else_."

"Sierra—" Flavio tried again, but I was unstoppable.

"What is _wrong_ with her? How much of a wanton, depraved, sex-crazed, love-deprived nymphomaniac must a woman be to want to fornicate at every opportunity, given or otherwise?"

Flavio placed a hand on his hip and nodded patronisingly. "It's annoying, isn't it?" he agreed, and I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Don't even _think_ about comparing me to her," I snapped at him, a finger pointing threateningly in his direction. "There is a _world_ of difference between us; Geneviève is obviously the kind of girl who will only ever lie with her husband, whereas _I_, on the other hand, will go to bed with absolutely anyone. Out of the two of us, I _clearly_ have far more self-respect."

"Sierra, I beg of you, please calm down," Flavio pleaded, going so far as to fall to his knees and clutch at my skirt. "Ever since you've had that dream about Pearl being alive, your emotions have been volatile and unpredictable. Remember who you are, where you are, and who you're _meant_ to be; _please_ calm down," he trailed off childishly, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of my dress.

I sighed, but decided, for his sake, I ought to play long.

"Alright," I said after a moment of contemplation. "Alright, I'm calm, I'm calm. Now what do I do?"

Flavio looked up at me and grinned, evidently happy that I was heeding his advice. "Explain to me what Geneviève did that was so horrendous you came storming in here in the middle of breakfast," he ordered politely.

"Why, she said she'll go shopping with me," I reiterated.

"Right; keep that point in mind. Now I want you to explain to me what Geneviève did next that made you lose your temper and start shouting."

"Well, she obviously said that she _wasn't_ going to go shopping with me, and was sending Paul—of all people!—to escort me instead. You remember Paul, don't you? The arrogant Englishman who within five minutes of meeting me so eloquently said, 'If you weren't my cousin, I'd fuck you'? Or something along those lines."

"I wasn't there when he said that," Flavio ruefully shook his head.

"Either way, there is still an obstacle between me and finding Mr Forrester, which means that there is a direct obstacle between me and finding Pearl."

"If, of course, Pearl is actually—"

"She is! Don't be so bloody cynical."

"Right; and when will Paul be, ah, collecting you?"

"When he's going to have a bath and change first, according to Geneviève. That will probably take about an hour."

"Good, good; so tell me, Si-Si; what are you going to do whilst Paul is lounging in his bathtub?"

I bit my lip and furrowed my brow in thought.

It came to me immediately.

"Simple," I said, flouncing towards the desk and setting myself down into the chair, picking the quill up with a flourish, "I will write Geneviève fifty highly insulting notes, and in each and every single one her name will be _purposefully_ misspelt." I smiled wickedly at this naughty notion.

"…Right. _Or_, you can—and this crazy, foolish, un-thought-out suggestion is completely off of the top of my head, by the way—you can send me down to the stables to ask to prepare a carriage, get some shoes, a cape and a parasol, drive into Kingston, and later explain to your aunt and uncle that you got bored waiting for Paul, thus ridding yourself of any and all obstacles preventing you from meeting Mr Forrester."

"…Good idea."

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Things will definitely pick up next chapter, of that I assure you.


	19. New Pet

****

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

**__**

Chapter Eighteen: New Pet

"I don't actually know where he lives," I stated casually as Flavio and I strolled arm in arm about the market square.

My maid, however, was too excited by the prospect of purchasing a caged parrot—an exotic pet that had belonged to a recently-hanged pirate, according to the vendor—to bother paying me any mind.

"Hmm?" he queried distractedly, poking a white finger enthusiastically through the bars and squeaking whenever it tried to bite him.

"For—Mr Forrester, of course. I don't actually know where he lives, I'm afraid."

"But you went to his house."

"Yes, but Jack took me there. I can't remember the way."

Flavio pulled his finger long enough out of the pecking reach of the parrot to turn and frown at me, the sun's rays slipping seamlessly, flatteringly into his fair strands, so I could no longer tell where it ended and his hair began. Even as a lady's maid, dressed in supposed hand-me-downs that actually belonged to him in the first place, his graceful, misleadingly feminine beauty was unmistakeable. I knew for a fact that the interested glances we had received were as much directed at him as they were at me, perhaps even more so. If he was a woman, if he was his sister, Cate, I'd have felt more than a little envious; but because he was, no matter how much he tried to deny it, a man, I merely felt embarrassment mingled with a deep-set resentment. If I was to be honest with myself, the reason I had confiscated the majority of his gowns was because I feared he would outshine me.

"You don't know the way to Mr Forrester's house?" he was asking me as I surreptitiously shook myself out of my thoughts. He took my action to be a reply, which I supposed it was, and tightened his pale, slender jaw in irritation.

"So what you are essentially attempting to convey in this nervous, avoidant manner of yours, is that we are, in fact, wondering about on a directionless goose chase."

"We are not!"

"Are too."

"Are—No, I refuse to get sucked into this again. Now come on Flavio, don't be such a baby; I need you to find me a guide."

Flavio's response was to cross his arms firmly over his realistically-padded chest and frowned. "Why do you expect me to do _everything_ you ask me to?"

"Because you're in my employ, now let's g—_No_, Flavio, leave the parrot—For God's sake, don't try to _steal_ it!" And with a final tug, I pulled him reluctantly away from the corner on which the parrot and his seller stood, my fingers pinched firmly on one ear.

"Ow ow ow ow _ow_!" he whimpered as I dragged him relentlessly away.

"No birds for you," I said firmly. "Pets are only for good boys."

"But I'm a—"

"Oh, shut up," I snapped, and pushed firmly towards the bustling centre. "Now," I said, releasing his ear and stroking the much-abused lobe soothingly, "Flavio, listen to me carefully—Don't sulk, I didn't pull your ear that hard."

"I think you've lengthened it," Flavio pouted, slapping my hand away and crossing his arms in a sulk.

"Oh darling, don't be like that," I attempted to patch up, but he simply half-turned away so that I was staring at his profile.

"Come on Flavio," I said again, snaking an arm about his shoulder and nuzzling my nose affectionately into his shoulder. This action always had a positive response on a childhood friend-turned-boyfriend of mine, Julian, and I was hoping that it would have the same effect on his, um… replacement…ary… predecessor… if that makes any sense.

The blond's shoulders stiffened at my touch, the feel of my breath on his bare neck, before relaxing yet again; as I gently tightened my grip about his torso, his head rolled back slightly, and I caught the pleasant scent of his hair. This position felt oddly relaxing, oddly normal, somehow, and the only reason I pulled away was because I realised that people were staring.

"Forgive me?" I queried, widening my eyes in a way that worked wonders on a couple of my exes.

Even then, Flavio was hesitant; so I decided to try a different approach.

"You know, Flavio," I said, my fingers reaching up to trace patterns on his bare forearm, "that Pearl is a child, don't you? Sorry to patronise you, of course you did. But did you also know," I continued as he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at me, "that many children… are like pets? And you _do_ want a pet, don't you?"

Flavio's forehead furrowed at my words.

"…Is Si-Si saying," he said slowly, "that Flavio isn't allowed to have a parrot for a pet, but he—_she!_" he squeaked, a hand reaching up to cover his mouth in horror whilst I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smirking triumphantly, "—but Flavio is allowed to have a _child_ for a pet?"

"…It'll be more like _our_ pet; not just Flavio's," I corrected after a moment's thought, and watched him deflate. "But it's better, isn't it, to share a pet, rather than to not have one at all?" I added anxiously, watching as he mulled over the concept of sharing a pe—child.

"Alright then."

I blinked confusedly at this rather swift decision; I had been expecting more resistance than this. "…Is that a _yes_, Flavio?"

"Sì."

Apparently, it really _was_ that easy, and I had to remind myself that Flavio wasn't like other men. "Good; now all we have to do is—" But Flavio's regally waving hand prematurely interrupted my suggestion.

"Don't patronise me," he said, clearly offended. "Flavio knows what to do; Flavio take Si-Si back to coach now." And he grabbed my arm and steered me forcefully back to the sensibly-guarded carriage.

"Wait here," he addressed as though talking to a child after he had rather unceremoniously thrown me in, wagging his finger authoritatively. "Flavio will be back soon." And he slammed the door shut and hurried back to the marketplace, leaving me to stare worriedly after him.

I think I sat there for a good half hour before he returned, a small, dirty creature dragged reluctantly behind him clearly wishing he was somewhere else.

"…Flavio," I asked with forced calm as he proudly presented the semi-abducted street child with a flourish, "Flavio, who is that?"

Flavio's beam widened, if that was possible.

"She's our new pet," he answered happily, and I saw the boy wrinkle his dirty nose at being referred to by the wrong pronoun; but he was clearly too frightened to challenged this blond stranger, and who could blame him?

"Flavio, this isn't exactly what I meant."

"Why, what _do_ you mean?" he queried with childish innocence, but I caught a smug flash of—_something_ in his eyes, something that made me suspicious of this supposed inanity.

"Flavio, let the boy go—"

"_No!_" Flavio interrupted petulantly, pulling open the door and promptly plopping the stunned boy into the carriage with me. The child tried to scramble for freedom, bless him, but Flavio simply stepped into the carriage and pushed him back in, the door closing with a _thump_ of finality that made the urchin shiver. The transvestite paid no heed to the child's palpable fear, sticking his head out of the window and asking the driver to return us to Governor Hale's mansion before settling comfortably down in the seat opposite me, evidently pleased with himself.

Narrowing my eyes, I reached forward, over the trembling boy's head, and dealt Flavio a resounding slap.

"What do you think you're _doing_?" I hissed as he whimpered and rubbed his cheek. "Kidnapping the poor boy like that, and—"

"I didn't kidnap him," Flavio sniffed haughtily. "I _rescued_ him. From a beating, actually; he was trying to steal an apple, he was, and I saved his tender back from the justifiably-angry vendor. You must now view me as a great and romantic heroine."

I wrinkled my nose before turning to look down at the small creature, huddled up on the floor with his arms wrapped tightly about his knees, thin shoulders trembling with fear. He must have been about the same age as Pearl, and the same size, though I guessed from his long limbs that he was perhaps a little taller. His hair was dark, darker than mine, but lighter than Pearl's had been, and thicker too; the strands were long and straggly, badly cut, and fell over his terrified face, shielding his eyes. Looking at him, I guessed that his skin was dark, maybe as tanned as Jack's, though covered as he was in mud and dirt, the exact shade was hard to determine.

I felt a stab of pity as I looked at him, but there was something else too; something oddly… _familiar_ about him, but for the life of me, I honestly couldn't figure out what.

"Flavio," I addressed stonily, "have you even _considered_ the fact that this poor boy's—"

"Daniel," Flavio interrupted informatively.

"Yes, Daniel—have you ever thought that perhaps his parents would worry about him and his whereabouts?"

"Don't have any parents," a small, quiet voice said, and it took me a small moment to realise that it was the boy, Daniel, who had spoken.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Parents," Daniel said again, perhaps a little more shyly, a little more frightened than before, if that was possible. "Don't have 'em."

"…Oh," I said, noticing the look of triumph in Flavio's eyes. "Well then; were you… Are you being looked after by your… uncle? Aunt? The—the, um… the parish?"

Daniel shook his head, accidentally spraying a smattering of dried mud and dirt onto my immaculate skirt as he did so. As I looked at him, at his grubby nose, his grimy skin and lowered lashes—which, as far as I could see, were his only point of beauty, long, thick and dark, curling flatteringly on his muddied cheeks—I felt again that odd, twitching sensation: _I know you, don't I?_

"Well then, now we _have_ to find Forrester," I said to Flavio as Daniel curled back up into himself. "He takes in orphaned and abandoned children, and Daniel honestly can't just remain as he is, roaming the streets unchecked and uncared for."

If Daniel's opinion differed from mine, he made no attempt to express it; instead, it seemed as though the boy was devoting every molecule of his being into fading into the coach's dark interior, clearly hoping that if he remained quiet and inconspicuous for long enough, these two strange adults would forget about him long enough that he can make good an escape. Watching him, I felt a pang of pity twist my gut, but before I could confront or meditate on the matter, Flavio interjected with a,

"There's no need: I talked to the fruit vendor whose apple was nearly stolen by the miniature rogue over there, and by strange and magical coincidence, the stall owner happens to know Mr Forrester's sister, who is a regular patron of the anonymous fruit seller's fruit stall, and he had very kindly agreed to pass a message on for us."

"Pass a message on for us?" I repeated sceptically, and he nodded his blond head enthusiastically, beaming triumphantly as Daniel attempted to sneak away across the small, cramped floor. "_Stay,_" Flavio said firmly to the boy, and Daniel's shoulders shuddered, his back arching in cold, icy fear. "Good boy," the blond said approvingly, reaching down to pet Dan's dark, messy head.

My maid then proceeded to repeat the verbal message he had entrusted in the care of the anonymous fruit seller; of how he (Flavio, in the guise of Jeanne-Louise, of course) was a maid for a most benevolent and philanthropic French countess (me), of how the countess, on hearing of Mr Forrester's great and noble cause, wished to donate a rather hefty sum to the kind-hearted gentleman in the hope that it would aid him in his good and most Christian work; and how she would like to discuss this further with him, and was currently residing with her aunt and uncle, the Governor and Lady Hale; how—

"You just want me to go back home and be a good little countess, don't you?" I interrupted accusingly, and Flavio's eyes narrowed, peeved that his long-winded speech was so abruptly cut short.

"In short, yes. And look!" he added, pointing a semi-accusatory finger at the petrified Daniel. "Look! I have brought you a child as a form of placation."

"You expect Daniel to placate me?" I asked, puzzled and annoyed that Flavio had single-handedly ruined my attempts at meeting Forrester face-to-face as soon as possible. "Why would I need to be placated? Exactly how can _Daniel_ placate me?"

The coach lurched unexpectedly forward over what I assumed was an upturned cobblestone, causing Daniel to squeak as he was suddenly tossed forward, face first, into my wide, (and hopefully, for his sake) soft skirts.

"Sierra," my maid began, wriggling about in the seat opposite me until he was comfortably, smoothing down his own skirts as he spoke, "Sierra, you and I both know that the only reason you're so desperate to find Pearl is simply because your mothering instincts are such that you need a child with you at all times to coo and fuss over, or your life shall cease to have purpose and you shall find yourself spiralling down into a pit of suicidal despair."

I narrowed my eyes at this, offended by his words. "That is not true!" I snapped, and hit him again whilst Daniel slowly backed away from my skirt. "How dare you say such a thing! Now you listen to me: the reason I loved Pearl so very, very much was because she was _not like other children._ Pearl was _special_; Pearl was _unique_; Pearl was sweet and amazing and intelligent and beautiful, and you _dare_ to think you could just—_replace_ her in my affections with the first boy you run into whilst walking down the street?"

Daniel was looking up at me now, his brown eyes wide with curiosity and fear.

"…_Oh_," I said, suddenly overcome with affection, "he's so _cute_…"

****

-x!x-

AN: Yes, I know; a short chapter, but at least I got to where I wanted to get to instead of writing pointless filler (unlike last time…). On a slightly irrelevant note, I'm writing an original story chronicling a random Steve/Sierra, um, 'adventure.' (I know from my hits count that there are readers out there who like this pairing!) A word of warning: there MAY be a few spoilers for _this_ fic… The links can be found on my profile page.


	20. An English Si–Si

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

**__**

Chapter Nineteen: An English Si-Si

Governor Hale was presumably seated slouched at his desk in his locked study when I returned with a terrified Daniel in tow. I had assigned the unenviable task of keeping hold of him to Flavio, which, considering how he had been the one to kidnap him, was only fair. At the very moment, the poor boy was struggling and snarling with all his might, attempting to break free of my maid's surprisingly strong grasp. My attempts to calm him had fantastically failed; the child regarded both of us with suspicion, and justifiably so. Even the semi-neoclassical splendour of Governor Hale's home failed to stun him into stillness, and so, in order not to attract attention, Flavio had shoved a makeshift gag comprised of handkerchiefs into the child's mouth before we entered the home.

"Daniel, _please_," I begged as we dragged him up the stairs. "I'm sorry for doing this, I really, really am—you know I originally had no part in this—but we're trying to _help_ you; please understand?"

Daniel said something rendered utterly incomprehensible by the gag and the sash we had used to secure it, but his meaning was clear. Silently, I cursed Flavio for his rash action; this boy was nothing like Pearl; all trouble, with no palpable reward. He had very beautiful eyes though, and I couldn't help but shudder at how familiar they were.

"Hurry up," I said to Flavio, opening my door and gesturing him in. "Put him on the bed."

These five simple words sent Daniel into a greater frenzy; whereas before he had been content to kick and hit at Flavio, he now attempted to attack _me_. I closed the door, hurriedly fumbling with the key before slipping it into one of the pockets tied around my waist, under my petticoat but over my chemise; there were two subtly-cut slits in the skirts that granted me relatively easy access into those hidden compartments.

"Daniel," I said soothingly, scurrying towards him in my uncomfortably stiff shoes. "Daniel, Daniel, Daniel." I didn't know what I was hoping to achieve by repeating his Christian name over and over, but it certainly didn't calm him; Flavio had to force the boy down with his body weight, and I could see immediately that this was a mistake.

"Get off him," I ordered, sitting down on the mattress beside the pair. "Daniel; sit up, calm down." I kept my voice deliberately detached, deliberately even, hoping that the cool, emotionless tone would somehow get through to him. Naturally, it had no effect, and I had to grab his arms to keep him still. The gag was still pressed securely into his mouth, and I indicated with a jerk of my head that Flavio gently undo the sash keeping it in place.

As soon as he was able, Daniel spat out the mouthful of handkerchiefs, spat them out into my lap, supposedly in contempt. I frowned at this, but my initial indignation soon gave way to concern when Daniel began to cough; choking, retching coughs that shook his entire body, shook the mattress we sat on, coughs that finally culminated in a spewing of grey-tinged vomit onto the fresh sheets and the edge of my skirt.

Concerned as I was, I couldn't help wrinkling my nose in disgust and seizing one of the spittle-soaked handkerchiefs from my lap, hastily dabbing away the sick on my dress. A noise indicative of repulsion arose from Flavio's throat, and I looked up just in time to see him turn away, his hands rising to cover his own mouth as he did so.

"Flavio, you sailed on at least two pirate ships," I lamented as I watched his blond hair sway. "Surely you've seen and smelt worse than this?"

"…That dress was pure Chinese silk," my maid choked out, and I rolled my eyes; of course Flavio's principle concern would be his dress.

There was a jug of water and a delicate glass goblet seated on my desk; I asked my maid to fetch them for me. "Here," I said to the boy, gently helping him up whilst Flavio hovered nearby with a mostly-filled glass and jug, "Head up, Daniel."

Daniel had obviously decided on a truce, or perhaps retching, coupled with his obvious hunger, had simply overpowered him; he made no attempt to pull away as I supported his dark, dirty head in one hand whilst my other gently tipped the glass to his lips.

"No no Daniel; slowly, _slowly_." Daniel gave a little nod, his forehead furrowing in concentration, causing flakes of dried dirt to flutter onto his cheeks, like inverted snow. His tongue, jarringly pink against his darkened lips, flickered out to lap up the last droplets of water, clearly unaware that there was half a jug left for him, and more besides. Something about this simple, kittenish action made me jump as another bolt of familiarity ran through me. My first thought was that he reminded me of Pearl, whose behaviour I had likened to a kitten's time and time again, but those brown eyes, and the way my heart briefly skipped a beat, assured me that, whoever he was reminding me of, it certainly wasn't my beloved little girl.

"Ssh, ssh," I said aloud, carefully pulling the goblet from his lips and handing it to Flavio to refill. "Are you feeling better now? You don't have to speak if you don't want to; just move your head."

Daniel blinked his dark, hypnotic eyes, but besides tilting it back so that his skull rested more comfortably in my hand, remained still and unanswering. Flavio passed me back the glass, and the whole process began again. After a few more sips, Daniel carefully sat up, and I gave the glass to him with the warning to be careful.

"Flavio," I asked as Daniel held the glass precariously with both hands and took careful, measured gulps, "Could you get a bathtub, a few buckets of warm water, and some soap up here, please? Ask the other maids to do it; I have a couple more errands for you."

"Oh?"

"Yes, hang on a minute." And I carefully pulled the pile of handkerchiefs out of my lap and stood, ambling over to the desk and pulling a blank page from the neat pile at the corner. I began to write my note for Flavio to present to Governor Hale, but halfway through I looked down and realised that what I had written was in English. Crumpling up the sheet and tossing it to the side, I dipped my pen into the inkpot and began again on another page.

Now, my handwriting was relatively neat, but I obviously wasn't used to quills; their size, their slenderness, the way their nibs had been sharply cut. Worst of all, my modern handwriting looked horribly anachronistic, horribly _wrong_; this was an age when few were literate, and those who could wrote in beautiful calligraphy that was sometimes indecipherable to modern eyes. With a sinking feeling, I realised that perhaps the good Governor might not be able to read my own handwriting, simplified and dotted as it was with giant black blots; but then I remembered the books, with their occasionally blurred, occasionally faded, but nonetheless _modern_ typeface, and forced myself to believe that perhaps Governor and Lady Hale would think that their niece mostly learnt to write from books and pamphlets, and handed the paper to Flavio.

"All it says is that I've found a young boy, and would like the governor to give you some money to buy some shoes and clothes for him. Also," I added, lowering my voice slightly and glancing towards Daniel, who had set the glass down on the wooden floor and was kneeling beside it, the china jug held precariously in his small, bony hands, "it mentioned that perhaps you'd like to purchase some, um… something for lice? _And_ fleas; I don't know if he has either, but it couldn't hurt, could it?"

Flavio shrugged as though to say this really wasn't his area.

"Just cheap, second-hand clothes from a hawker or something, preferably a little big for him; children grow very quickly, you know."

"But Sierra, don't you think—"

"Hmm?" I hummed, and my maid hesitated.

"Don't you think I should pay a visit to the Houghtons, the dressmakers, and ask them if… Well, you know."

I looked back at Daniel, who had now abandoned the glass and was pouring the water directly from the jug into his throat; it slopped and dribbled messily down his chin, neck and shoulders, and if his snorting was anything to go by, up his nose as well.

"No," I replied, still watching the little ragamuffin chugging the liquid down, "I don't think I want to… _keep_ him, Flavio. I think, when Forrester eventually calls on us, we should give Daniel to him; he'll know what to do."

Flavio looked very disappointed, but slunk away obediently; I followed him, but stopped near the bed, bending down and prying the jug from the stray's lips amidst protests.

"Si-Si?" Flavio called. "The door is stuck."

"Is it? Oh, that would be because I locked it; hang on a moment." I poured some more water into the waiting glass, set the jug down, and scurried to Flavio, my hands reaching into my pocket and pulling out the key. The maid exited, closing the door behind him, and though I did not lock the door, I did slip the key back into its hiding place before returning to kneel beside Daniel.

"How are you?" I asked him. "Better now?"

Daniel promptly turned his attention to the water swirling in his glass, and once again, said nothing. His quietness unnerved me; even if I had never known the chatterbox that was Pearl, I would have still realised that, particularly for his age, his shyness straddled the border of unnatural.

"You'll be having a bath soon," I said after a few moments of silence. "Is that alright? You'll have to tell me if the soap smells too girly for you though; it's made of jasmines, roses, um… other flowers."

Although he remained mute, I saw confusion flicker in his eyes; firstly at the word _girly_, as if wondering how scent can be such a thing, and secondly at jasmines and roses, although to his credit, a brief flash of understanding _had_ dawned when I'd added _other flowers._ Oh Daniel, you poor, sweet, brown-eyed boy; your life has never been sheltered, I can see that far too easily… And yet, your innocence shines through your eyes. If he had been Pearl, I would have kissed him, or at the very least, hug him; but he was timid as a squirrel, and I didn't want to upset him any more than I already had.

"Here," I said, my fingers brushing gently against his elbow, and he started, hugging the glass tightly to him. "Don't be afraid; I was just wondering, would you like some more?"

I could see in his eyes that he did, so, though he did not reply, I gently prised the glass out of his loose hands and filled it up again. The jug, by now, was near empty.

As he slowly took the goblet from my hands, it suddenly occurred to me that not once had he thanked me for his drink. Somehow I doubted he thanked Flavio for 'rescuing' him, if that was indeed what had happened, either. But then I remembered that he lived on the streets, and therefore his parents were either dead, or not the sort to care properly for their son, much less instil in him the importance of good manners. I felt an overwhelming urge to correct this, but hurriedly smothered it, contenting myself with rubbing his chin clean with a previously-pristine handkerchief.

After a few moments of silence, there came a sharp rap on my door, and Flavio entered, nervously smoothing down his skirts.

"Si-Si?" he began timidly. "Mr Hale would like a word with you. He wants to see Daniel too."

"But—But he's nowhere near presentable," I argued uselessly, sensing as I did that Governor Hale would take one look at Daniel and toss him out of the front door himself.

"The Governor is very insistent," Flavio answered apologetically.

"Five minutes?" I asked and, seizing another handkerchief, scrubbed furiously at Daniel's face. The boy did make a noise now; cries of "OW!"s and "Ah!"s and even a "You cat-clawed—", futilely batting my bodice as he did so.

"Alright, alright!" I yelped after he nipped at my wrist, stumbling away from the boy. His face was still dirty, and I had a horrible feeling that I'd actually rubbed the mud further into his skin, but without water and soap, it couldn't be helped. I extended my hand, and after blinking at it suspiciously for a moment or two, Daniel sullenly accepted it.

"Are you looking forward to meeting the governor of your town, Daniel?"

Once again, no reply, but I didn't bother worrying about this as a sudden realisation dawned: Daniel didn't know me as a French Nicolette, but an _English Si-Si._

"…Daniel," I began, releasing his hand and kneeling down so that my face was level with his, "Could I please ask you to do me a tiny little favour?"

* * *

The Governor and his wife were ensnared in a domestic battle that promised to take no prisoners; I could hear their incomprehensible voices shouting from the top of the stairs. Beside me, I felt Daniel shrink back, and tightened my grip on his hand.

"Don't worry," I assured him with a sideway smile. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Daniel was clearly sceptical of my promise, but trapped as he was in a big strange house, he had to take my word for it.

"I'm really sorry," I repeated again, "that Flavio just… took you. But I will make it up to you, I promise. How about this; after we've finished our audience with Governor Hale, I'll take you to the kitchen, and you can eat and drink as much of whatever you want, okay? Except alcohol," I added swiftly, and he tilted his head and blinked at my fast words.

When we'd reached the bottom of the stairs, it was to see Lady Hale come storming out of her husband's study, the door bouncing off of the wall. She gave me only a passing glance, barely acknowledged Daniel, and, gathering up her delicate golden skirts, hurried up the stairs. I heard a door slam shut, and could have sworn that the entire house shook with the force of it.

Daniel released a squeak of fear, and tried to pull away, but I held on tight. "It'll be over in a minute," I assured him, and thus began to drag the reluctant boy towards the study.

"So this is the young rapscallion, is it?" the Governor said in English before repeating it in French. "What a filthy little bugger," he muttered under his breath before addressing his niece once more; "_What on earth drew you to him?_"

"_I was driving through the market,_" I replied quickly, "_and saw him, standing helplessly on a corner, begging for a scrap of money with which to buy food. Moved as I was by his plight, I immediately bought him an apple, and he was so very, very sweet and sincere in his gratitude, and watching him devour that emerald orb, I couldn't help but think to myself—_"

But my uncle indicated with a waving hand to stop; I would soon learn that he wasn't at all interested about the boy in the slightest. He had an ulterior and, dare I say it, _selfish_ motive for calling us down. Later I would wonder why he bothered asking for Daniel at all.

"_Yes yes yes,_" he was mumbling impatiently, temper fraying; "_Can you speak English, Nicolette?_"

Obviously, I hesitated. "_Pourquoi?_"

Unsurprisingly, it all came back to the strange and perplexing case of the missing chandelier; God in heaven, but the man was obsessed.

"_It's very simple, my dear,_" he began, gesturing I take a seat whilst he settled his middle-aged self comfortably down behind the desk. Daniel was apparently left to stand, presumably because the governor didn't want his chairs to get dirty, but I gestured that he sit anyway.

"_I assume you are aware,_" Hale began after he finished looking profoundly disgusted at Daniel's unbathed scent, "_that whilst my wife and I were away at Tennyson's—_that _bastard_!"(In his anger, switching briefly to English,) "_—estate, that our precious chandelier was stolen, no?_"

I resisted the urge to drop my jaw and act sarcastically scandalised, choosing instead to nod my head, whist Daniel merely looked confused and scratched his nose.

"_Perhaps Louise hasn't told you, but we will in fact soon be hosting our own cycle of balls, gatherings, supper parties, salons, soirées and the like; partly, of course, because it is our duty, as the leading citizens of Kingston, but also because Tennyson_—the_ whoreson_!—_has also implied that he and his_—common _baker's_ daughter of a—_wife—host the most sophisticated gatherings on the island—_" Here the Governor stopped and proceeded to mutter darkly to himself the many boorish and unsophisticated things that the criminal Tennysons had said, done, served, ordered, opined, decorated, toasted, and wore. Daniel squirmed in his seat uncomfortably, and I reached over to pat his hand; he flinched and shrank away from my touch. Offended, I drew my fingers back, clasping my hands primly in my lap as my back straightened.

"…But I digress," he said at last, clearly realising he was ranting to himself in full view of his niece and her temporary charge. "_So as I was saying:_ Do you speak English?"

I hesitated, looking down at my lap as though my skirt would somehow provide me with an answer.

"Nicolette," the governor half-said, half-sighed, again in his native tongue, "Nicolette, you don't have to be afraid: we've all had our fair share of youthful indiscretions."

My head snapped up at this, and the confusion on my face was genuine. The Governor smiled indulgently and, ignoring the boy, reached over his desk to take my hand in his.

"_Your father and mother have been in constant correspondence with Louise ever since our wedding day,_" he explained, and I suddenly realised that Louise was in fact Lady Hale's given name. "_We've heard all the salacious rumours and slanderous stories, which I have been assured are all, without exception, either greatly exaggerated or entirely fabricated._"

"_…Uncle, I don't understand,_" I replied in careful, deliberate French. "_What are you talking about?_"

The governor sighed, clearly deciding to humour me.

"_Nicolette, you mustn't think me a brute; I am sensitive to the fact that your… fall from grace, shall we call it?… has occurred, ah, recently._"

"_My fall from grace?_" I repeated, whilst beads of nervous sweat prickled on my neck and forehead.

"_Why yes; I am, of course, referring to the, hmph… betrothal between you and the son of the Marquis de Feuquières that had… rather unfortunately been abruptly reneged on… On account of… The, ah, doubts cast… Suspicions that you were not quite…_"

"_My state of virginity,_" I finished bluntly, and like Daniel before him, he flinched at my words, pulling back into his chair and clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"_Yes; _that. _And I believe your… suitor, if we can call him that, was a young Englishman, is that correct? Bow…man; no, not Bowman… Boland? Boleyn? Beauclerk; that was his name! My wife claims that you have known each other for several years, have played together as children when his family visited Paris, and yours London (and us), is that so?_"

Fearful of the consequences if I was to answer wrongly, I slowly nodded.

The governor smiled satisfactorily, and pressed on, "_Louise has also told me—perhaps unreliably, perhaps with an exaggeration so that her dear niece would appear in a better light—she has told me that, over the many years you've known and corresponded with one another, he taught you some English, is that correct?_"

I was hesitant; and yet, oddly desperate to reclaim the verbal freedom that only my beloved mother tongue could bring. French was a beautiful language, pretty on the ear, with rigid grammatical rules and structures, but after speaking only it to the majority of my general acquaintance… I decided to simply nod slowly, and hoped that it was enough of a reply.

"_And then the scoundrel, chased as he was various creditors throughout England and France, chose one night to take advantage of your—your trusting _innocence_ and abduct you, yes?_"

"_You mean,_" I said, still in French, "_he wished to elope with me?_"

"_Or at the very least, compromise you to such an extent that he will then be able to extort exorbitant sums from your family,_" the governor agreed. "_But as you well know, Beauclerk's plan was foiled, and he fled to Brussels; but the damage done to your reputation…_"

There was a lingering silence as he waited patiently for my response.

"_…And that's why I was sent here…_" I processed slowly. "_To marry a mere merchant, Sauveterre; because no one of my station would have me, isn't that right? Yes,_" I added hurriedly for effect, noting his quizzical frown, "_Yes, it's all coming back to me now…_"

"_If the daughter can't marry rank, better she marry money,_" Hale agreed. "_Now pay close attention, Nicolette; I've heard tell that your fiancé has a concubine, a slave girl that is already quickening with his child…_" The governor's lips curled in palpable distaste at the very idea, and he abruptly changed subject. "_But we'll discuss this another time; now, to return to my original query:_ Can you speak English?"

Even though I had received the entire (and, I suspected, heavily abridged) tale of Nicolette's fall, her little faux pas, as it were, I was still hesitant to reply truthfully; but at the same time, I wanted so very much to say yes, to give myself licence to speak my own language as I pleased.

My dawdling, unfortunately, proved to be a mistake.

How could I have possibly forgotten that children can never be trusted with secrets? Even when you've told them explicitly to stay silent on the matter, they always have a tendency to spew out the truth, and almost always at the most inconvenient of times; as though able to sense when matters would be of maximum embarrassment. An example that springs to mind is the case of my old school friend, Harry; her parents had divorced when she was five, and her father had remarried with indecent haste, thus providing his eldest daughter with a half-sister and brother. When she went to stay with him one Easter (she lived in London, whilst her dad had relocated all the way to Hull), he'd taken the entire family out shopping. (Unremarkable so far, I know, but indulge me my rambles.)

Not so long before this miniature expedition, Harry and her family had been visited by her aunt, who had given her about £100 as birthday money before she returned to South Africa. Now, Harry's family was not poor, but they were extremely tight, which was probably why they were so rich; anyway, the aunt had handed over the cash whilst Harriet's family had been distracted by something her youngest brother had done, and in a moment of misjudged ease, Harry had told her sister, Annie, about the substantial (to a twelve-year-old, at least) sum that crazy Aunt Jane had bequeathed to her. Nearing the end of the shopping expedition, Annie, brimming as she was with eight-year-old mischief, chose to wait patiently until Harry's father, who of course compensated for his notable absence in my friend's early life by buying (relatively) cheap gifts, was just about to fork out the cash when Annie loudly piped up: "Daddy Daddy Daddy, Harry has money, Harry has money! Auntie Janey gave it to her before she went away and said she has to spend it _all_ on clothes, and, and—"

Needless to say, Harry ended up parting with at least seventy pounds, and the reason I've brought this rambling anecdote up was because Daniel's first words since entering the study were extracted under similar circumstances, _sans_ volume and general exuberance:

"Miss can speak English; of _course_ she can speak English…"

I turned in my seat and shot Daniel a look pulsating with resentment, whilst Governor Hale merely nodded in satisfaction.

"Very good," he said, sounding detectably relieved that he was no longer obliged to speak in a language he clearly detested, "Very very good; good honest boy you've found for yourself, Nicolette, and far more truthful than you are to your own family, which is most shaming. But I understand completely the cause of your shame, so let bygones be bygones… _Nicolette_," he said with such sudden severity that I actually jumped and turned away from Daniel to look directly at him, flushing like a schoolgirl who had been caught unequivocally daydreaming.

"I trust I have your full attention? Thank you. Now," still ignoring Daniel, he invited me to lean closer with a beckoning finger, "pay very close to what I have to say, Nicolette; by tomorrow our first guests will have arrived, and I cannot emphasise enough the importance of your role…"

****

-x!x-


	21. Fiery Hair

****

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

__

Chapter Twenty: Fiery Hair

Later that evening, whilst I was dining with my adopted family, a footman entered the dining room to politely announce that the Houghtons had arrived on the doorstep. Christophe had been shooting me suspicious looks ever since the governor casually remarked that I had adopted an English boy, so I was eager for a subject that would distract us all.

"What _are_ you doing here?" I queried as the couple waddled in, the husband weighed down by various boxes. I took in Mrs Houghton's weary appearance, her worn fingers and bloodshot eyes. Before she could speak, the governor interjected, in plain simple English, that earlier in the day he had sent a manservant to the pair with the full sum due so as to encourage them to quicken their pace and finish his niece's gowns. When they had explained that dressmaking was an art, and as such required patience and, above all, time, that the most they could do was let out some of Flavio's old gowns for me, the governor's clerk had returned to his master to explain the matter to him. Hale had then suggested that the clerk invite the couple to reside in his mansion until the commission was completed (the better to intimidate them into finishing the dresses, I suspected).

"_After all,_" he said in French with a wink in my direction, "_we cannot let our Nicolette be upstaged by Miss Swann at the balls now, must she? Particularly since the Englishwoman is all but betrothed._" Governor Hale had asked me earlier in his office to charm a certain high-ranking officer in the Royal Navy when he arrived tomorrow, even going so far as to get him to _propose_ to me; and although Nicolette was already engaged, and therefore I ought to have questioned his motives, I had been too stunned by Daniel's tactless truth-telling to do anything but nod submissively.

"_Oh,_" Lady Hale grunted, throwing her fork down on her plate with a clatter that made the rest of us stare. "George," she said, happily ignoring her nieces and nephew, "George, I cannot believe you would even consider inviting that—_whore_—into our home! Think of the effect her influence will have upon our nieces—and I also fear what… _deviancy_ she might talk Christophe into."

She was speaking in clear, rapid English, so I didn't pay much attention to Geneviève and Christophe's bemused faces. The governor spared a glance at the Houghtons, who seemed both surprised and intrigued by this unladylike outburst, and with a lazy wave of his hand, gestured to a footman to lead them away.

"Lou," he said, reaching out to place an affectionate hand over hers, but Lady Hale flinched and pulled away, still in a huff.

"How can you be so selfish?" she snapped at her husband. "I've always hated that girl, George, you know I have, and yet you insist we invite her, even in light of all the scandals—"

"Louise, Miss Swann did not ask to be abducted by—"

"You know as well as I that she was seen walking through Port Royal to the _Black Pearl_ of her own accord!"

"I have her father's word that she simply wished to negotiate, um, 'the cessation of hostilities' against her home."

"Or so she claims; at any rate, it was rather _convenient_, was it not, that the negotiations resulted in her being carted away on the ship to serve as the crew's… Oh, I can't even _speak_ the word."

"You said it just now," Governor Hale muttered under his breath.

"_Excuse me,_" I interrupted in French, "_But perhaps you would wish to explain to the rest of us exactly what is happening? In a language that we can _all_ understand._" I glanced covertly at Christophe, but quickly looked away when I saw him staring at me, that frown still hovering on the edge of his mouth. "Why is Miss Swann considered by my aunt to be a whore, simply because she was captured by Jack Sparrow?"

"Jack Sparrow?" the governor repeated with a frown. "What does he have to do with any of this?"

I wrinkled my nose in a frown, and was just about to answer when a sudden thought that made my heart freeze descended upon me.

"…I… I am sorry," I stumbled, measuring each syllable out in my ever-changing accent. "It is just… It is just that I have heard his name, and that he was the captain of the _Black Pearl_… Is that not correct?"

The governor exchanged a glance with his wife, and I felt myself shrink back into my seat at my mistake.

"I've always thought the _Black Pearl_ to be a ghost ship," Lady Hale murmured, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Obviously the attack on Port Royal changed my mind, but…"

"Wasn't he sentenced to _hang_ in Port Royal, four months ago?" the governor queried, and his wife nodded. "Yes; I seem to remember declining an invitation from Warren to visit; he mentioned something in his letter…"

"Oh, the invitation?" Lady Hale butted, anger flashing in her arrogant eyes.

"Yes, the invitation."

"The one from your old school friend?"

"Yes."

"Who is now the Governor of Port Royal?"

"…Yes," the governor replied hesitantly, clearly wondering where all this was going.

"Whose hospitable generosity you coldly declined?"

The governor looked uncomfortable. "Er, yes."

"On account of the fact that his daughter's a whore?"

"Now Lou—"

"Yes or no, George?" the wife demanded.

In desperation, the governor turned to look earnestly at me, his face falling upon seeing my perplexed expression. Christophe and Geneviève were no help, unable as they were to understand English, and the gentleman couldn't _really_ beseech his footman for advice.

"Th-There was a _scandal_!" he half-defended, half-whined. "Everybody snubbed Miss Swann, and by extension, her father; it would have been most outrageous if I hadn't followed suit…"

"And you would have continued to snub him," Lady Hale's menacingly cold voice cut through, "had it not been for the chandelier…"

"It—was—_stolen_!" The governor exploded, at which point Christophe stood and, grabbing his wife, made a half-hearted attempt at an excuse, and promptly left the room, a confused Geneviève looking wildly over her shoulder. I would have been tempted to join them, but considering the first of the two tasks Governor Hale had abruptly thrust upon me involved, namely charming Governor Swann's daughter well enough so that my uncle might keep the chandelier the Swanns were bringing for the gala, forced myself to stay put.

If Lady Hale had been any angrier, steam would have been puffing out of her nostrils; but her husband was furious too, and this fact somehow evened the odds.

"_Louise_," he hissed, slowly rising from out of his seat and glowering down at her. "It was _eight years ago_; she was _twelve_."

"How can you possibly expect me to _forget_, George?" the lady snarled; although she remained seated, I couldn't help but flinch at the way her hands twisted the napkin. "I have never been more _humiliated_ in my life."

"She was _only_ a _child_," the Governor stressed, at which point Lady Hale got dramatically to her feet and flounced out of the room. After a moment of silence, broken by the clack-clack-clack of Lady Hale's tapping shoes, there came the sound of a door slamming shut.

"…Oh dear," I said after a stupefied pause. "Um, Uncle?"

The governor grunted to indicate he was listening, still staring at the doorway his wife had so recently left through.

"Uncle," I repeated, more firmly than before, "I confess to being a little… fearful."

"Oh?" he knitted his eyebrows. Somewhat discouraged, I ploughed on.

"Yes; considering my dear aunt's… feelings towards Miss Swann, I somehow doubt… Well, I don't think…"

"Spit it out, Nicolette," my uncle ordered, and I swallowed nervously before continuing, switching swiftly to French for effect.

"_I fear what others will think of me if I am publicly seen consorting with a harlot,_" I bluntly blurted out. "_Uncle, please do not tell me that your love of chandeliers is such that you would willingly cast your own niece's character into doubt in pursuit of one._" The Swanns, I had been informed earlier, had a magnificent crystal chandelier stashed in a hidden room in the cellar for safety, and it was because of this that Governor Hale was so anxious to have them intend his round of parties.

Hale visibly hesitated before answering. "Of course not, Nicolette; how could you even think such a malicious thing of me?"

"I did not mean to accuse you, sir… _It's just that, now that I know of my aunt's opinion…_"

"Now you listen to me, Nicolette," Governor Hale said, pulling out an empty chair beside me and sitting down, his hands seizing my own, "I confess to not having seen Miss Swann after the attack on Port Royal, and as such, cannot comment on her current character; I can, however, explain the vindictive loathing towards her by my wife…"

The Swanns, I was told, have lived in the Caribbean for no longer than eight years; the Hales were already halfway through their first decade when the Governor of the newly-restored Port Royal arrived with his motherless daughter, who was then but twelve years of age, a mere year older than their own Paul. Although Lady Hale would much rather her son was wed to a Frenchwoman, she certainly had no objection to setting about convincing Governor Swann that an early betrothal between their two children would prove beneficial to both families, and promptly began arranging three days' worth of balls and other entertainments, rounded off with a magnificent feast, so as to make him feel welcome. ("My wife misses the social whirl of Paris," the governor added somewhat exasperatedly, confirming my suspicion that the governor's wife would welcome any excuse to throw a party. "And the social scene in the Islands, as you will soon discover, my dear, is rather… _subdued_.") The Governor Swann, who my uncle rather fondly referred to as 'Warren' (although I would later discover that this wasn't actually his real name), was rather attached to his daughter, insisting that she accompany him to all of the festivities Lady Hale had so carefully prepared, which was quite unusual as she had yet to make her debut; but this breach of social convention was carefully overlooked by the locals.

Apparently, Lady Hale's plan was going swimmingly, and by the end of the third night, Governor Swann was already subtly pushing his daughter towards Paul Hale, who apparently spent the majority of his childhood with his finger up his nose, and thus did not at first glance appear to be the type of man Miss Swann could see herself as happily married to. But alas it appeared as though fate had grander plans for Miss Swann than wedding an English aristocrat's son, and the third evening just happened to play unexpected host to a most unfortunate accident that would forever change Lady Hale's opinion of the matter:

Late that evening, when the majority of Kingston's upper class had made for home, the Hales and Swanns, accompanied by a handful of Royal Navy officers and one or two plantation owners, took several carriages out to Kingston's medium-sized harbour; Miss Swann apparently harboured an "unnatural fascination" with ships and sailors and other maritime matters, but most (worryingly) of all, she carried a particular torch for _pirates_. A Naval ship, due to make berth in Kingston Harbour that very night, was said to have in its brig _two_ captured pirate crews, due to be tried and hanged the moment the _Queen Anne_ made port, and so Lady Hale had suggested that they all go down to the docks to watch the ship come in and unload its criminal cargo. Miss Swann, who apparently had wondered around the Hales' home looking politely bored the past three days, immediately perked up at this, which had of course been the conspiring Lady Hale's intention.

Because there was obviously little light, and a noticeable absence of servants, several of the party had no choice but to carry three or four torches between them; Miss Swann hung impatiently off of her father's arm, bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly eager for the ship to come in so that she could catch her first proper glimpse of _real_ pirates; Governor Swann, who was one of the torchbearers, gently prised her little fingers off of his forearm, and told her that if she couldn't keep calm, she ought to go and play with Paul.

Miss Swann immediately fell silent, clasping her hands and demurely lowering her dark head, and remained utterly still as the adults around her laughed and chatted over glasses of sherry and port, toasting one another's health whilst a sullen Paul was left to guard the half-empty liquor bottles he had been forced to carry out of the carriage.

After about forty minutes of waiting, Miss Swann, who was the only member of the group to keep her eyes fixed firmly on what she believed was the horizon (as far as she could gather in the near-total darkness), spotted a glimmer of something that she at first thought was simply a twinkling star; however, after several minutes of intense staring, the girl soon realised that it was in fact an approaching ship, and the light she saw possibly the captain's illuminated cabin.

"Papa!" she cried in delight, accidentally startling all the adults around her. "Papa, _look_!" Excitedly, she raised her hand to point at the steadily growing light, knocking her father's arm—

"…and accidentally set your aunt's hair on fire," the Governor Hale completed solemnly, his fingers primly interlaced on the tabletop before him as he looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

Five ticks of the grandfather clock went by before I was able to respond to this anecdote.

"…Oh my," I said dumbly, and although I logically knew that this was a very horrible, humiliating, and life-threatening event, I still had to fight down the bark of laughter that threatened to escape my throat. "Oh Uncle, that's… _terrible_."

"Isn't it?" he agreed, motioning to a servant to pour out another glass of port. "Louise refused to leave our home for months afterwards, even going so far as to turn down various callers. But her scalp was not badly burnt, and her hair grew back after a year, so all was well in the end. Oddly enough, we have Miss Swann's sharp mind to thank for this blessing; I fear half of Louise's face would have been burned off had it not been for her quick actions."

"Why, what did Miss Swann do?"

"She pushed Lady Hale off of the dock."

"_What?_" Half of the exclamation came out of my nose in a snort of laughter which I quickly smothered with my hands.

Governor Hale shrugged nonchalantly at this revelation. "All we had were two bottles and seven glasses of sherry and port; submerging my wife into the ocean was thus the quickest and perhaps surest way of extinguishing the flames. Of course, Louise's favourite dress was ruined, and to this day she is certain that the girl had acted out of malice."

"Oh, I see," I replied, still fighting down my giggles. "Oh, how utterly _dreadful_."

"You could at least attempt to feel more sympathy towards your aunt's embarrassment," Governor Hale instructed; he did not need to feign the protection he felt towards his wife, it was clear that he loved her dearly. My hovering smile was instantly wiped off my face.

"I… I am… sor-ree," I apologised in my overdone accent. "_Je suis desolée…_"

The governor waved my confusing Anglo-Franco stuttering away, sipping absentmindedly at his glass.

"No need to apologise to _me_, Nicolette. You may leave now; I wish to be alone with my thoughts."

Frowning at my abrupt dismissal, I turned in my chair and glanced at the time; quarter to nine. Too early to be going to bed, I felt (unless it was with Christophe). Nevertheless, I chose to obey him, and after a perfunctory curtsey and a "_Bonsoir,_" left the dining-room, closing the door gently on his contemplative figure.

"_It's funny, you know,_" a male voice drawled from somewhere to my left, causing me to jump and clutch at my bodice in fear. Even as I thought it, Christophe's dark silhouette materialised out of the darkness, his bare feet moving almost soundlessly against the marbled floor.

"_You scared me, Christophe; I thought you'd gone to bed._"

"_Oh I will, soon; Geneviève is still disrobing, and that tends to take a while; although those laces, you see._"

"_Yes,_" I agreed, uncertain of what to make of his word frank words and flat tone. "_Well, I am awfully tired, so I thought it best to retire—_"

"_When did you learn to speak English so fluently?_"

His words made my heart freeze in my chest, and I felt my hands involuntarily clench into fists.

"_…Pardon?_"

With maddening calm, he repeated his question verbatim.

"_You know when; with Beauclerk. And besides, I am hardly fluent—_"

"_That does not seem to be the case; just a minute ago, I heard you speak—_"

"_You were listening behind the door?_" I was appalled at this utter disregard for my privacy, and this, coupled with my overpowering fear, made my voice rise with righteous indignation.

"_Yes,_" he answered without missing a beat, "_and although I do not possess a command of the English tongue, I can detect a fellow countrywoman's lilt when I hear it. Your voice had no such inflection._"

"_So I possess some linguistic dexterity that you do not; so my knowledge of the English tongue developed whilst I was away; I fail to see how these two facts alone can form a substantial basis for your accusations._"

The moment he quirked his eyebrow, I knew I'd made a mistake.

"_And exactly what am I accusing you_ of,_ Nicolette?_"

Hurriedly, I tried to think of a defence, but my mind was blank.

"_…I… I do not know… But you are accusing me of_ something."

"_And there's another thing,_" he continued, as though I hadn't spoken at all; "_Your unwillingness to discuss your life these past six months: Where have you been? Who had you? What did do to you? …You might not even be a virgin,_" he added slowly after these quick-fire questions; "_perhaps I ought to check, hmm? How does that sound to you, Nicolette?_"

It was the no-bars come-on I had been dreaming of from the moment I'd laid eyes on him, yet I found myself shrinking away; in one quick stride, Christophe had closed the distance between us, his hands wrapped tightly about my wrists, preventing me from running.

"_Christophe, let me go!_" But my plea went unheeded.

"_One more question,_" he said, smiling coldly down at me; the flickering lamplight cast his face into half-shadow, making him seem sinister and menacing. "_Since when did you ever like children? If I recall correctly, my sister refused to have one within eight feet of her; and now I hear she's gone and adopted an English weed. It's all very perplexing, don't you agree?_"

For what seemed like an eternity, I simply stared up at him, my mouth opening and closing wordlessly, my vision blurring with unshed tears. He _knew_; he _knew._

After minutes of silent torment, I slowly lowered my head in defeat.

"_…I'll be gone in the morning,_" I whispered quietly to him. "_Please don't have me, or the boys—_boy,_ arrested; I swear I'll be gone…_"

Christophe laughed softly, cruelly, triumphantly, his fingers reaching up to my brush my cheek. "_There, there,_" he mock-comforted, "_None of that, Nicolette; here,_" and he pulled a handkerchief from out of his sleeve and offered it to me. My hands were too heavy to lift, so he graciously wiped my eyes for me. "_Oh be quiet! I'll not force you out just yet._"

I sniffled and grabbed the handkerchief from him, covering my face under the pretext of wiping my eyes. "Th-Thank you," I whispered, and it wasn't until much later, when I had discussed my encounter with Flavio, did I begin to wonder at his cold kindness.

There was a pause between us, and after some calculating staring on his part, Christophe promptly told me to trot off to bed.

"_Wait one moment,_" his voice rang out, just as my foot touched the first step. Rooted to the spot, I remained staring at my foot as I heard him move languidly towards me. He stopped walking when he was level with me, and at his firm prompting, I turned, limp as a rag doll, to face him.

His fingers were warm and cruel as he grasped my chin, forcing me to look up and into his overshadowed eyes; his lips bruised my own as he kissed me; I, for my part, was stiff and unresponsive.

At length, he drew away, his eyes still shrouded in shadowed, and in a cold, detached voice that I had never heard him use until that very moment, said, "_Continue._"

Still unable to fully appreciate what had happened, I stayed frozen in my position for a moment longer; then, somehow sensing his displeasure, picked up my skirts and clumsily continued on my way.

"Nicolette."

It was not my name; he and I both knew that it was not my real name, and yet I stopped halfway up the staircase, half-turning, waiting.

He was looking up at me, his cold, hard eyes glittering in the gentle candlelight.

"_You don't kiss half as well as my sister does._"

For a moment I stared at him, my bewilderment such that not even my jaw dropped open. Then, rigidly, I returned my attention to my ascent.

There was nothing left to say.

**-x!x-**


	22. Scripted Conversations

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Twenty-One:** Scripted Conversations_

Whilst I had been entertaining my uncle and relatives with my incongruous grammar and wavering pronunciation, Flavio and another maid had taken on the task of giving Daniel a damn good scrub, the details of which I welcomingly allowed to wash over me; anything to lessen the impact of Christophe's words and actions. According to Flavio, it had taken over half the afternoon to wash and comb away the last of the lice nesting in his hair; and before I had left for supper, my maid had loudly estimated, as a shivering Daniel hid behind a changing-screen, that it would take the entire evening for the pair to make his body… presentable. And the rags that the boy called clothes had to be burned, post-haste.

Naturally I protested at this last suggestion, and was peeved to discover that Flavio had already ordered another maid to toss the clothing out.

"Flavio, how could you?" I groaned as he carefully plaited my hair for bed. "We have nothing else to offer him; do you expect him to just prance about naked?"

"Of course not," Flavio said, fishing about my dresser for a ribbon. "As a matter of fact, I've already asked the Houghtons to measure and prepare by tomorrow a set of clothes. Nothing elaborate, just something _serviceable_. It's a very good thing the governor invited them to stay here, you know."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Well, if they'd remained in their little shop, it'll be somewhat difficult for us to travel to them every day and check on their progress, wouldn't it? Far better to have them here, where you can try each gown on, and have the necessary adjustments made as they go along. Less time wasted all around."

"I suppose that's what Governor Hale had in mind," I agreed, frowning at my golden-cast reflection whilst Flavio secured my plait. "By the by, where _is_ Daniel, Flavio?"

"I put him in a room of his own; I didn't think it'll be the best thing to have him where he can… you know: panic."

"Panic?" I repeated, and saw Flavio's reflection nodding vigorously.

"He's been in a foul mood ever since his bath, you know," Flavio told me sagely. "Wouldn't even let me dry his hair; so I locked him up in a guest room."

"…You locked him up in a guest room?"

"_Oui._"

"Did you leave him a lantern or something?"

"No; he might have burnt something."

"I assume you left the window unshuttered?"

"Why would I do that? He might try to escape!"

"…So what you're effectively trying to tell me is that, in an attempt to calm a kidnapped child who has been bathed against his will, you thought it best to lock him up, _alone_, in a dark room with _no_ source of light whatsoever?"

"…No?"

"_Flavio_!"

After five minutes of struggling and petty arguing, my maid reluctantly led me to the locked room in which Daniel lay incarcerated; after a meaningful glare and hard poke, he stepped forward and opened the door for me.

The room's total darkness was such that even I, a fully-grown woman, felt nervous. Tightening my jaw and scolding myself for my childish fear, I raised the lamp high and stepped through the doorway, following the flickering light as it guided me towards—

…an empty bed.

For a moment, I simply stared at the rumpled sheets in shock, trying to logically deduce why the pillows and thin blanket had been stolen. Then, very, very slowly, I quietly circled the foot of the bed until I had reached the other side.

A medium-sized lump that I assumed was Daniel lay innocently on the floor, cloaked completely in the white blanket. From under one edge of the covering, I spotted the straining corner of a plump pillow.

A quiet giggle escaped my throat, and I knelt down, placing the lamp on the floor beside me; Flavio, I knew, was still guarding the doorway, lest Daniel suddenly jump up and make a bid for freedom.

Very quietly, so as not to disturb him from what I assumed was the most peaceful rest he had had in… well, in a very long while, at any rate, I inched closer and closer to the sleeping boy until I was able to grab hold of the coverlet with relative ease. Gently, I raised and folded the material back several inches, smiling when I saw that he was hugging the pillow tightly to him. A tuft of messy dark hair now poked out from where the blanket curved into a gentle fold; overwhelmed with a curiosity to see his sleeping face, I wriggled closer and experimentally brushed my fingers against the blanket's edge.

"AARGH!"

And with this war cry, Daniel suddenly reared up (face still obscured by his hair) and proceeded to aggressively beat me to death with his pillow.

"Daniel! Stop!—it's _me_! STOP!" I yelped, covering my head—apparently his favourite target—with my arms and crawling clumsily backwards. It was a miracle that I didn't knock the oil lamp over.

"_DANIEL!_" I heard Flavio yelp from behind me, and in seconds he had dived around the two of us and lifted Daniel, still kicking and struggling, futilely attacking air with his pillow, clear off the ground, holding him firmly to his chest whilst I regained my bearings and gathered what was left of my shredded dignity.

"_Daniel_," the maid said again, quietly but no less firmly. I frowned at his voice, surprised at the maternal authority I found there. Daniel soon stopped flailing and, presumably embarrassed by his outburst, promptly buried his face into the pillow.

"Good boy," I heard Flavio tell him; and then, to me, "You alright?"

Straightening my considerably messier plait as best I could, I clambered to my feet in wounded dignity and nodded, bending briefly back down to pick up my lantern. "Yes, I'm fine," I replied aloud. "Just a little shocked; your reaction was certainly unexpected, Daniel."

Daniel made a muffled noise from behind his pillow which I doubted was ever intended to be understandable.

"Sorry for disturbing you," I diplomatically changed subject, motioning with my hand that Flavio put Daniel down on the mattress, an order he immediately obeyed. "I just wanted to see how you were. …How are you, by the way?"

Daniel made another incomprehensible noise, his pillow nodding furiously. I assumed this meant 'Fine, thank you.'

"Oh good," I murmured in agreement, fiddling awkwardly with my nightdress. "And, um… How was your evening?"

Another gurgle, accompanied with a shrugging of his thin shoulders.

"Oh that's nice." After another awkward ten seconds, I told him that we were going to leave him now; that, for his own safety, we were locking his door, and was he alright with that? That I slept just in the next room with Flavio, so if he needed anything…

"…don't hesitate to knock. Or yell. Alright? You um, you're perfectly clear on…? Of course you are. Right. Um, I'll just… go to my own bed now." And with a hesitant pat on his head, I retrieved his blanket, bade him goodnight, and closed the door.

"So?" Flavio asked as he turned the key in Daniel's lock. "What do you think? Can we keep him?"

I hesitated, looking thoughtfully back at the door as we retreated.

"…No," I said at last, somewhat hesitantly. "No, I don't think that would be at all wise Flavio; when Forrester finally visits us, I think it best to hand him straight over."

* * *

The arrival of Governor Swann and his supposedly scandalous daughter occupied the attention of the entire household, not least that of Governor Hale; he forbade me from touching breakfast until I had been properly fitted into one of the two gowns the poor Houghtons had worked the night through to complete, a simple but expensive morning gown comprising of a plain, pale green skirt with a pattern of vine leaves and flowers along the hem and a tightly-fitted matching jacket that was clearly never meant to be worn undone. Then I was ushered away to the parlour by a maid whose name escaped me—Flavio was begging the Houghtons to quickly throw together some clobber for Daniel, who (as I reminded Flavio) was still locked in his room—where Governor Hale awaited, directing his wife and other niece to sit about the room in a ladylike montage.

"They'll _be_ here any minute! Louise, go sit in the windowseat with your embroidery—I don't care if you despise it, just decorate this cushion!—_Geneviève_! You're a lady not a soldier, play something more relaxing—Damn it! Would you be so kind as to translate for her, Lady Hale? You can break your fast _later_, Nicolette, now come and sit down right _here_—Oh Lou, what are you _doing_? Don't stare down at your work, look pensively out the window! I want the Swanns to see your profile when they enter—Nicolette, don't just stand there, find something _accomplished_ to concentrate on—Geneviève, that piece is far too slow! Argh, must I do _everything_ myself?"

"I honestly don't see why you bother, my lord," Lady Hale said primly, staring out the window as her husband instructed. "The Governor is an intimate acquaintance of yours, and we all know his daughter cares little for propriety."

"Yes yes, but we must present Nicolette—" he stopped abruptly, as though realising what he was about to confess to his wife.

"What of Nicolette?" Lady Hale picked up sharply, as though I was in another room entirely.

"Nothing at all, my lady," the governor returned hastily, and then, clearly hoping to prevent his wife from questioning him further, he turned, grabbed my arm, and pushed me down onto the couch before stepping back and studying me carefully, clearly racking his brains for some ladylike accomplishment I could turn my hand to.

"You there!" he snapped at an idle-looking footman, making the servant jump. "Go to the library and bring back one of my books!"

"Which boo—?" but the governor cut across with a huffed "I don't care, any book at all!" The manservant bowed quickly and immediately scurried off, and the governor spent the time until his return repositioning me on the sofa with an imaginary book in my lap.

"My lord," the man announced, bopping his head as his master snatched the slender tome from his hands and threw it unceremoniously into my lap.

"Well don't just sit there, open it!" my uncle rounded on me and, startled, I hastily flipped to one of the first pages.

…_Encouraged by this, her hands became extremely free and wandered over my whole body, with touches, squeezes, pressures…_

Startled, I snapped the book shut and looked guiltily around me, which I think would be the default reaction for the majority of people upon realising they were unwittingly reading lesbian porn in front of other people.

"Uh, Uncle—"

But the governor screeched and indicated with a flapping arm that I be silent; his stress was such that he even took off his wig and wiped at his cropped hair with a handkerchief. I took this to be a silent indication not to press the matter, and simply settled back into my seat, erotica in my oh-so-casual hand.

After about ten minutes attempting to look effortlessly leisured and aristocratic, we heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, punctuated with Governor Hale's squeak of trepidation. "It's them, the Swanns!" And he plopped his now lopsided wig back on, walked towards a mirror, and attempted to straighten the gracefully grey curls. Lady Hale slammed her forehead into her open palm with a groan, causing her husband to fly across the room and physically move her body back into a satisfactory position. Geneviève and I were thus treated to a comical two minutes of husband and wife wrestling each other in a manner not unlike Punch and Judy, only with a half-embroidered cushion instead of a slapstick.

"Oh George, you're _obsessed_!" she screeched, wrestling the cushion back from her husband and knocking his wig aside with it. Their preoccupation with one another was such that not even Governor Hale noticed the tell-tale sign of the audible hoofbeat slowing from a rapid gallop to a lazy trot, nor, indeed, ceasing altogether. Nor were they aware of the sounds of a kind, muffled male voice, the disembarking of two pairs of feet, the opening of the front door; likewise, the presence of the footman who came to announce the arrival of the guests and paused in the doorway, doing a double-take upon viewing his master and mistress wrestling in the windowseat and, at Geneviève's nod, left the parlour with a subservient bow, also went unheeded.

And so it came to be that the first scene the Swanns would behold was ironically one comprised of a wrestling host and hostess, watched by his two perturbed (but ladylike) French nieces.

After several moments of shocked staring by all four of us, the moment was broken by a female laugh that was quickly smothered. The Hales froze, as did us Frenchwomen, and presumably the Swanns; then, with exaggerated care, Governor Hale plucked himself from off his dishevelled wife, placed his wig back onto his head, and said stiffly, "Well my dear, I think it's safe to say we've chased that spider away."

Lady Hale blinked in confusion, but decided to play along, nodding graciously and thanking him for ridding her of the terrifying arachnid. She then turned an imperious stare onto the woman who dared to laugh at their predicament—Miss Swann of Port Royal.

How can I describe the Governor Swann? Everything about him seemed to be average; neutral. He was of average height, with kind eyes and skin that was neither dark nor fair; his nose was rounded, his jaw protruding, but not strong, his cheekbones apparent, but never sharp. When he smiled, his face dimpled pleasantly, and his dark eyebrows always drooped downwards, making it seem as though sadness was never far from his countenance.

As for his clothes; well naturally 'Warren' Swann wore what appeared to be the height of Restoration fashion, which was clearly his and my uncle's era; a coat of navy-blue cloth, clashing colourfully with a silk viridian waistcoat, neutral grey breeches, flawless white stockings, black shoes with silver buckles.

And as for his daughter, Miss Swann; well let me first say that she was not at all what I had expected. I had been 'introduced' to her as a freckled, dark-haired girl of twelve in Governor Hale's recollection of the Hair-Burning Incident, and as eight years had passed, I had thought of her as an average-looking brunette with adorable freckles and a childish fascination with pirates. I had expected her to be clumsy, and perhaps still carry a little puppy fat; basically, I thought I was going to meet a twenty-year-old child. But the Miss Swann that stood before me… Well…

The following is an unedited transcript of a conversation between Flavio and myself that had occurred on the evening of the Swanns' highly-anticipated arrival, as I was preparing for bed:

**Me:** Flavio…

**Flavio:** _Sì…?_

**Me:** You know that Elizabeth Swann…

**Flavio:** _Sì, signora._

**Me:** Oh, you're Italian again.

**Flavio:** _Sì, signora._

**Me:** Does that mean you're going to pretend you can't speak or even understand French?

**Flavio:** _Sì, signora._

**Me:** …Are you going to pretend you can't speak or understand English?

**Flavio:** …_Sì, signora._

**Me:** Oh dear. Flavio, you are without doubt the most annoying creature that's ever lived.

**Flavio:** _Sì, signora._

**Me:** …

**Flavio:** You were saying, signora?

**Me:** Hmm? Oh yes, of course; thank you for reminding me. As I was saying, you know Elizabeth Swann…

**Flavio:** _Oui, madame._

**Me:** …

**Flavio:** …Sorry; I'll be very good now.

**Me:** Anyway… That Elizabeth Swann…

**Flavio:** While do you always trail off immediately after you say her full name?

**Me:** Well, I was hoping the silence would speak for itself.

**Flavio:** …Why?

**Me:** Because that's what happens.

**Flavio:** In what?

**Me:** …Novels, of course; you trail off, and the silence speaks for itself. It's the lazy author's way for building up atmosphere; a get-out clause for character description. Duh.

**Flavio:** But that doesn't make any sense.

**Me:** I beg your pardon?

**Flavio:** The whole idea of _silence_ 'speaking for itself'. I mean, if silence could speak, it wouldn't be silence, would it? It'll just be another chatty atmosphere.

**Me:** …Oh, what do _you_ know of literary technique and artistic licence?

**Flavio:** Nothing; I'm just being logical.

**Me:** Logical? Hmm, I don't think so; not so much logical as _pedantic,_ at any rate. That's what you are, Flavio: _pedantic._ So much so that I've half a mind to write a series of bestselling children's books entitled _Patrick the Pedantic Pendragon_ and base them all on you.

**Flavio:** Well I'll be damned if I'm not honoured!

**Me:** As you should be.

(Pause.)

**Flavio:** …Si-Si?

**Me:** _Sì?_

**Flavio:** What's a Pendragon?

**Me:** …I don't actually know. A dragon that's no longer wild, I assume.

(A significant pause.)

**Me:** Flavio?

**Flavio:** Yes…?

**Me:** You know that Elizabeth Swann—

**Flavio:** Oh Christ, not this again!

**Me:** No wait, I've actually figured out what I want to _say!_

**Flavio:** I approach the following conversation with much scepticism.

**Me:** That Elizabeth _Swann,_ right…

**Flavio:** …_Yes_…

**Me:** She's not _that_ pretty, is she?

**Flavio:** …I fail to understand.

**Me:** _Is_ she?

**Flavio:** Oh, good heavens, no!

**Me:** Thank you.

**Flavio:** Not _pretty_ at all, no!

**Me:** _I know!_

**Flavio:** As far as prettiness goes, you're prettier by far.

**Me:** Well, I already knew _that._

**Flavio:** Whereas Miss Swann…

**Me:** Oh, _yes,_ the poor, unfortunate thing.

**Flavio:** …Is the epitome of beauty and grace.

**Me:** …_What?_

**Flavio:** I mean, she is perfection in its purest form.

**Me:** _WHAT?!_

**Flavio:** An angel of light—

**Me:** Flavio, I think you're confusing me with Miss Swa—

**Flavio:** A goddess amongst mortals—

**Me:** Well if _she's_ a goddess, then so am I!

**Flavio:** Venus, come to earth—

**Me:** FUCK, NO!

**Flavio:** …

**Me:** What's wrong?

**Flavio:** You just said a Bad Word.

**Me:** I'm sorry, but you can't say I was unprovoked, can you? Look, as far as goddesses go, _I'm_ Venus, alright? I mean, out of the two of us, I'm the young, voluptuous deity of sensual delight, whereas Miss Swann… To use this goddess metaphor, she's more of a Diana than anything else.

**Flavio:** And what makes you say that?

**Me:** Well… I _think_ Diana was beautiful, but she was a virgin, so most of the appeal of seducing her was simply because you could _say_ you did afterwards; whilst Venus was—

**Flavio:** A slut? OW!

**Me:** Desired for the sake of desire. Coveted, for the sake of coveting. _Wanted for herself, actually._

**Flavio:** …_Je ne comprende pas._

**Me:** Basically, you wouldn't want to fuck Miss Swann.

**Flavio:** AAAAAAH! Bad Word! Bad Word!

**Me:** (grins evilly)

(Pause.)

**Flavio:** …Well, you're not really one to talk, are you?

**Me:** Beg pardon?

**Flavio:** About whether you would want… _you know._

**Me:** What? Take a stroll through Lily Avenue?

**Flavio:** Exactly. I mean, you have a preference for the Tin Toy Trekker.

**Me:** (defensively) That's actually not the case. Oh, I might _say_ it's the case, but it really, really isn't.

**Flavio:** (snorts) You're just saying that in the hopes of lending your opinions an air of validity.

**Me:** I have, I have! Really, I have! I've been known to… potter about the vegetable garden…

**Flavio:** Oh, really? With whom?

**Me:** …

**Flavio:** Exactly.

(A long and significant pause.)

**Me:** Well, what about Cate? I'll be more than happy to replant her cabbages.

**Flavio:** …Sorry, you've lost me completely.

**Me:** I just said I wouldn't mind fucking your sister.

**Flavio:** …(faints)

**Me:** Oh dear.

And that, my dears, was how I felt about Miss Swann; interpret as thou wilt.

After the initial introductions were completed, the group was divided on the politically-incorrect grounds of gender; us ladies remained in the parlour, awaiting the tea in awkward silence, whilst the men retreated to what I assumed was Governor Hale's study for brandy or port or whatever it was men traditionally drank.

Though Lady Hale could of course speak English fluently, her antipathy for Miss Swann was such that she spoke nothing but French, and always to Geneviève; I, being the only other English-speaking Frenchwoman in proximity, was subtly told to entertain her.

The entirety of our conversation is as follows:

**Me:** Would you like sugar with your tea, miss?

**The Annoyingly Skinny One:** Oh, yes; two please.

**Me:** (starts) _You_ take sugar?

**The Annoyingly Skinny One:** (apparently confused) Well, yes.

**Me:** I mean, you're not allergic to, you know… things that taste nice?

**The Annoyingly Skinny One:** No, I don't believe I am.

**Me:** So you're saying you don't… swell up and bloat like a beached whale the moment you have something sweet?

**The Annoyingly Skinny One:** (apparently confused) Er, no. Why?

**Me:** (studies her intently in a non-homoerotic manner) Oh, nothing.

And a little later:

**Me:** It's very good tea, isn't it?

**The Politely Distracted One:** Hmm? Oh, yes; very good tea.

And a little later still:

**The Attempting To Be Sociable One:** The weather's very good for this time of year.

**Me:** Oh? How do you mean?

**The Attempting To Be Sociable One:** Well, this is usually the monsoon season, but we've only had three storms so far.

**Me:** Oh, is it? My, that _is_ very good weather.

**The Attempting To Be Sociable One:** Yes, so I said.

**Me:** Mm.

Thankfully, I was rescued by Daniel, who came squealing into the parlour just as I was beginning to strike up another failed conversation.

"Miss!" he squeaked, and promptly dove into my lap, causing me to accidentally knock tea onto Miss Swann's skirt.

"Daniel, what—Oh, Miss Swann! I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean, I—Daniel, what's _wrong_?"

Daniel simply whimpered, and clutched tighter still, practically burrowing himself into my dress. Miss Swann wisely chose to move away, wiping at her dress as best she could. I think she was far too shocked by the boy's unexpected entrance to say or do anything else.

"_Daniel!_ What's wrong?"

"_Hide me, Miss!_" came a whisper that carried across the room.

It was only then that I realised what the matter was: only Flavio could incite _that_ amount of terror.

"Daniel—" I began, but he screeched and promptly began clawing at the sofa, determined to bury himself amongst the cushions. The three other ladies had, out of some sort of mutual survival instinct, retreated to the far side of the room, and were watching us fearfully.

"Daniel!" I snapped, forgetting my French accent completely. I was very tempted to slap him; instead, I simply grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him as fiercely as I could. "Daniel, Daniel! _Look at me,_ Daniel; look at—"

My words died in my throat as, miraculously, he obeyed, staring up at me with wide, frightened doe eyes. A part of my brain was telling me to release his arms, to hold his face, to stroke his cheeks, to _comfort_ him—but all I could do was gawp, mouth agape, as he looked pleadingly into my eyes.

"N-No," I said at last, whilst somewhere near the door came the sound of Flavio screeching to a halt and curtseying respectfully.

"M-M-May I have him, miss?" he stuttered, also forgetting to speak in French. "I—I didn't _mean_ to let him escape; but he bit me, you see—"

"Oh, that's alright," I said, though with all the attention I gave him, I could have been speaking to empty air.

"Miss?"

But I paid him not the slightest mind; thoughts, disjointed, whirled through my head. Of course; how could I have been so stupid? How could I not have recognised him, the brown eyes, the dark hair and—and the eyes?

_He looks so much like his father…_

"Miss?" I heard Flavio say; and then, closer, his breath whispering against my ear; "Sierra?"

"Hgfh," I gurgled, unable to be distracted even by Flavio's waving hand.

"Si-Si?" Flavio queried worriedly. "_Say_ something, Si-Si; you've been sitting like this for two whole _minutes._"

"Grfgph," I replied, still gawking.

"And—And—And there are people here, Si-Si," Flavio said, but the only reaction he was able to elicit was the snarl that always came whenever someone attempted to forcibly take a child away from me.

"_Si-Si—_Ah!" he added as I suddenly stirred; but it hadn't been Flavio who had jolted me back to reality.

_No…_ I mouthed; in my shock my grip loosened, prompting Daniel to scurry back to Flavio with a squeaked "Hide me!"

_No…_

I hadn't heard what he had said, but that hardly mattered because I still recognised his voice. Oh God, I recognised his voice! And I shouldn't have done… He couldn't _be_ here, he just couldn't…

"Nicolette?" Governor Hale murmured, half-irritated, half-concerned. "_Will you not greet our guest?_" he added in French.

Gripping Daniel's shirt, Flavio shuffled meekly away, allowing my uncle to loom ghoulishly before me. "Nicolette," he hissed, seizing my wrist and forcing me to stand on trembling legs. "_Come along, girl, a 'bonjour' would do. Nicolette?_"

I nodded, slowly, to convince him—and in part, myself—that I was fine, that I could stand and smile and 'bonjour' Paul and Christophe and Governor Swann and—

"_Steve?_"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Yes, I know, I know; nothing on the fanfic front since July, and I now have the audacity to come swaggering back with incomplete proof-reading, script format and a terrible un-thought-out cliffhanger… (I would apologise profusely, but I think you've learnt to expect it by now. Sorry anyway.)

And now… Shameless self-promotion time! I've started to write an answer to the question "Hmm, I wonder what happened in Jack's childhood/teens/early twenties?" The result is the overlong **Petites Affaires**, in which eight-year-old Jack all but channels his not-yet-born-daughter's spirit, the only real difference between Jack and Pearl being that Jack's a boy, and only HE is in control of the Breakfast Monkey. You know, just in case you're interested…


	23. The Kitten of Doom

**AN:** Due to a niggling plotbunny that refuses to be contained on fictionpress, this chapter subverts the established narrative by being about Sierra… as seen from Jack. Kinda. Well, not really. Er, not yet; THIS chapter is actually written from the perspective of somebody else. (Differing perspectives; it's an experiment.) So without further ado, ladies and possible gentlemen, may I please introduce… the Kitten of Doom. (And whilst we're on the subject… does anybody remember _Spawn of Satan_? ANYBODY?)

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Twenty-Two:** The Kitten of Doom_

From her hidden perch on the windowsill, she could see awkwardness infiltrate the ranks of the refined ladies and gentlemen tableau'd before her. Five gentlemen, she counted—well, five and a half, if you counted the boy—and five ladies. Two of the gentlemen were the governors of Kingston and Port Royal respectively, and of complete disinterest to her, though she did know enough to know that the two of them were vying for the governorship of Jamaica, the duties of which were currently divided between the pair.

The handsomest man in the room—the one whose luxurious hair was natural, unadorned by a restricting wig—_he_ was Hale's nephew, and he looked incredibly like her Si-Si, but of course, he was of no interest to her either. Hale's skulking son, she ignored; despite Si-Si's beliefs, the watcher knew that Paul was a harmless bundle of fluff, just slightly perverted, that's all.

This left one and a half men left, and the watcher knew them to be Commodore James Norrington and Daniel the possible orphan respectively.

She also knew that Si-Si was under the impression that they were both somebody—or perhaps that should be some_bodies_? They did not look so much alike—called Steve.

Silly Si-Si, shouting like that: now the entire company was staring at her, and after a very awkward pause, Si-Si fell back onto the sofa in a fake but superbly well-executed faint. (The Daniel-Steve promptly backed away, bless him.) Christophe and the maid (Flavio was it?) moved as one towards her, surrounded her, examined her, took one arm each, and caused tea to be spilt, aunts to yelp, and misses to "Oh!" as they carried Si-Si through the door and up into her room.

After another long and lengthy silence, Governor Hale suddenly remembered that there were some, er, things of official and important business, and would Governor Swann and Commodore Norrington be so good as to consult him? Thus did the trio sweep out.

Lady Hale then rang for the maid, told the young woman to clear up the mess Si-Si's supine exit had caused, and grabbing her niece's arm, also swept out.

This left Miss Swann and bewildered little Daniel alone, but neither was of particular interest to the watcher, who was now wondering how best to enter the house without being noticed.

Unfortunately for the watcher, Miss Swann had already noticed her.

"Daniel?" the lady asked kindly of the boy. "It is Daniel, isn't it?"

"Yes, miss," Daniel bobbed as politely as he could.

"What do you think of cats, Daniel?"

"What do I think of cats, miss?"

"Yes. Do you like them?"

"Oh _yes,_ miss; they're very good when you can't get your hands on chicken."

The smile faded slightly from Miss Swann's face; outside the watcher mewled, horrified, and began searching desperately for a way to jump down. Oh, if only she wasn't afraid of heights!

"There there," she heard Miss Swann say, and thrashed desperately as the lady lifted her off of the sill and carried her into the parlour.

"_Mew! Mew mew mew!_" _(Eep! Don't eat me!)_

She snapped her sharp little teeth as Miss Swann reached out to tickle her white chin, apparently unaffected by her manic clawing.

"Look Daniel, you've scared him."

"_Mew!_" _Her__, actually.)_

"Poor little thing," Miss Swann continued, unheeding; she barely spoke French, so it would have been mighty foolish to expect her to understand Cat. "I wonder how he got up there in the first place?"

"_Mew mew mew mew mew mew,_" the kitten told her; "_mew-mew mew mew._" _(I fell out of the sky; Satan sent me.)_

"Would you like to pet her, Daniel?" To claim that Miss Swann's tone of voice was patronising would have been wrong, just. In truth, Elizabeth Swann had had very limited experience with children, and now that she found herself stranded in her host's parlour with nought but a terrified-looking boy for company, she was determined to make the best of the circumstances.

"_MEEW! Mew mew mew mew mew-mew! Mew-mew-mew, mew-mew-mew!_" _(NOO! Please don't let him touch me! He'll eat me, he'll eat me!)_

"Er… if you want, miss."

Neither boy nor cat wanted it; neither boy nor cat wished it. But, somehow, boy and cat petted and was petted regardless, and they both shot subtle glares at Miss Swann for the entirety of the ordeal.

Many is the whirlwind romance that begins thus.

And so, after this rather awkward and very forced introduction, followed by a mostly one-sided conversation, Daniel and the kitten were sent on their merry way… only Daniel didn't know where to go. Yes, he had been kidnapped and, as far as he was concerned, was being held hostage in the governor's unhumble abode, but even so, it was much better than kipping out in other people's doorways. So after a moment of uncertain lingering in the hallway, he decided to trot up the not-quite winding staircase, squirming bundle of fur in hand, and attempt to locate Miss, whom he had decided was a very nice young lady when she wasn't calling him Steve in front of complete strangers.

"I-Is Miss alright now?" he stuttered, peering curiously around the doorway; in his arms, the kitten stopped squirming, and was now craning her little neck as best she could.

From her perch in the boy's arms, the kitten could see that Si-Si had arranged herself into a position reminiscent of mortification: splayed out across the bedspread, with a pillow clutched tightly over her head. Kneeling beside her was her maid, Flavio (or so she called herself), who was hiding her frustration behind a façade of concern. She raised her violet eyes, and smiled when she saw the kitten.

"Look, Sierra," the blonde said, jabbing her finger mercilessly into her mistress's upturned spine. "Daniel has a kitty-cat."

"_Mew, mew mew mew mew-mew mew-mew mew mew-mew-mew-mew mew?_" _(Ah, why must you people insist on patronising us?)_

"I don't care," came Sierra's spoilt, muffled huff.

"…It's a very _small_ kitty-cat."

"_So?_" There was a hint of a sob in her voice now.

"Oh, you're no fun," the maid pouted, and promptly hopped off of the mattress with the intent of advancing towards them.

It was here that Daniel, panicking, threw the kitten across the room.

"_MEEEEEEEEW!!!_" (The translation of which is unfortunately unprintable.)

Chaos on a smaller scale erupted at this, and by the end of it all, Daniel could be found cowering in Si-Si's arms, Flavio could be found cowering under the bed, and the kitten could not be found as _she_ was cowering in the furthest corner of the top of the bookshelf, which, in defiance of all physical law, she had landed on unharmed.

"_Mew,_" she whimpered pathetically, and curled up into a ball. She remained positioned so until she heard the thump of the door closing, which served to signal to her that the two scary humans had gone away. Then and only then did she shuffle, as slowly and carefully as was kittenfully possible, to peer fearfully over the edge.

Oh, how she hated heights!

"_Mew?_" she tried, aiming the cry specifically at Si-Si, who was seated at her dressing-table with her face in her hands. "_Mew-mew?_" _(Help? Help, please?)_

It took a minute or two, but eventually Si-Si was forced to acknowledge her presence.

"And how did _you_ get up there?" she queried, standing up and dragging a chair behind her. She tested the wooden structure once, twice, thrice, before lifting her skirts and stepping carefully onto the seat. The kitten stared suspiciously at the outstretched hands, a white paw reaching out to cautiously prod one of the upturned palms. When she was satisfied that the hands would not suddenly crumble, the kitten clambered gingerly down from her elevated perch and curled up in Si-Si's cupped hands.

"Poor thing," Sierra said, tipping the animal into one upturned palm and using the other to help herself back down.

"_Mew,_" said the kitten, rubbing her black head affectionately against Si-Si's wrist. "_Mew mew mew._"

"Hmm," said Si-Si, crouching down and gently tipping the furry bundle onto the rug. The kitten yawned and stretched, her little claws peeking out of their white sheaths, testingly picking at loose threads. Then she dove under Si-Si's skirts and wrapped herself around Si-Si's ankle.

"_Mew-mew! Mew-mew, mew-mew, mew mew mew-mew-mew mew?_" _(Si-Si! Si-Si Si-Si, do you recognise me?)_

"I'm very fond of you too," laughed the woman, and beneath the petticoats, the kitten sighed in exasperation; it was fast becoming clear to her that the species barrier was going to be a bigger problem than His Infernal Majesty would have her believe.

"_Mew-mew-mew, mew-mew-mew, mew mew mew mew mew mew-mew mew-mew,_" grumbled the kitten, uncurling herself from Sierra's ankle and trotting out from under the petticoats. She turned, turned again, turned one more time, reminded herself that only _dogs_ were stupid enough to chase their own tails, and, vaguely disoriented, sat down, her blue eyes staring disapprobation. _(Never mind, never mind, I'll go and look for Papa myself.)_

"_Mew mew mew mew mew-mew mew-mew-mew-mew mew mew, mew-mew,_" she began with a despairing shake of her head; "_Mew mew mew mew-mew mew, mew mew mew-mew-mew mew mew-mew mew-mew-mew mew mew?_" _(I must say I'm very disappointed in you, Si-Si; you can speak fluent French, yet can't understand a single syllable of Cat?)_

"Oh, you are _absolutely_ adorable!" Sierra squealed, kneeling down and rubbing her furry head affectionately. The kitten rolled her eyes.

"_Mew mew mew-mew-mew mew mew, mew mew mew mew,_" she went on patronisingly. "_Mew mew mew mew mew mew mew mew mew 'mew'._" _(Cat's far easier than French, I'll have you know: the only word you have to learn is 'mew.')_

And with a flick of her tail and a promise to return ("_Mew mew-mew mew mew mew-mew._"), the kitten of doom did make her exit.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** He he he… I is test-driving the Kitten of Doom. Apologies for not writing/updating, m'dears; I just haven't had much encouragement--er, incentive-- to write… (looks meaningfully at the readers) Oh come on people, I'm on 46 of your alerts! **FORTY-SIX!** ME! YOU! AM! ON! For Christ's sake…

_(**NB.** This obviously does not apply to the two(?) very nice people who DO read/review regularly, and certainly is not aimed at the loyal reader who has been here since what is very probably the beginning of time, and for whom I feel compelled to finish. You know who you are, dearie.) _


	24. Satan's Little Helper

**AN:** More of the third-person narrative, in which royalty appears just when the Kitten of Doom was in need of a paw…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**

_**Chapter Twenty-Three:** Satan's Little Helper_

Priests and ministers and Father Dickinson (hypocrite!) may rant and rail all they want, but from the kitten's personal experience, an eternity in hell was not as unpleasant as one might believe. She personally had decided that she preferred hell to heaven (although she'd only briefly spent time in the latter), the main reason for this being that Satan was an all-round nice chap, even going so far as to convince Buddha (admittedly, with the aid of various life-threats) to speed up the reincarnation process and have her rejoin the human world in the form of a five-month-old kitten.

"_It's only a temporary measure, of course," he had said, stroking her new kitten's head as she tottered unsteadily on four new paws. "Just hang on for long enough for Avie to finish… negotiating, as it were, with Chronos."_

_She had looked up at him then, her eyes wide and doleful._

"_Mew mew-mew mew mew-mew-mew mew mew mew… mew mew?" (You're willing to prostitute your own wife… for me?)_

"_Well, yes," replied Satan, his brow knitting. "What else is a wife for?"_

She had then made the big mistake of asking him exactly how she would return to the mortal world: the answer took three thousand light years. (In earth science, light years were simply a measure of length; but the Other World, however, exists in a dimension beyond the limits of reality, and as such, its inhabitants know not the difference between measurements of space, distance, time, weight, etc., and therefore use units interchangeably. Physics wasn't a very high priority in Other Worldly education.)

Someone not so very great or wise once said (and had been quoted on various profile pages ever since), that "if it takes longer than thirty seconds to explain, it's magic," or something along those lines. This is very possibly why His Infernal Majesty's explanation took three thousand light years.

The kitten had long decided that a transcript of his, _mew-mew, noise-of-gagging-on-furball-times-two_ ("ahem, cough-cough") 'scientific' proposal would be impossible, not to mention impossibly long. Nevertheless, what follows is her informal synopsis:

Basically, there existed in the great multiverse several realities, and in each of the several realities existed many dimensions, and each of the many dimensions existed an infinite number of universes, some parallel, some strictly opposite, and all that they were going to do ('they' being His Infernal Majesty and whichever fellow deity he ropes in) was find and splice a parallel her with the 'real' her before returning her to the 'real' world in the 'real' universe. This action will of course cause major havoc in various lesser universes in the PoRN Dimensions (the Purveyors of Rampant Naughtiness Dimensions, which Satan _swore_ to his wife that he had never visited), as the implacable Law of the Conservation of Energy (who, due to the cult following he had gained from those of a scientific inclination, was now a deity in his own right) had stated that in order for the Great Splicing to succeed, puff pastries must be produced at alarming and superhuman rates (for the Law had a sweet tooth) in at least _one_ alternate universe.

In short, she was to be reincarnated.

_And_ resurrected.

(…As they say, if it takes longer than thirty seconds to explain…)

An interesting fact about the kitten now trotting through the side streets of Kingston Town was that, though she gave off all the appearances of existing fully in this dimension, her body and soul were in fact still migrating from the Other World and the Mew Mew Mew Mew-mew-mew-mew Mew Mew Mew dimensions. (The One Where Everybody Is A Cat dimension, the politics of which are infinitely more interesting than our own, not least because the closest thing they have come to achieving nuclear warfare involves sitting on opposite sides of a fence, hurling toxic furballs. Incidentally, these brave and fearless soldiers were known as _Die Kamikatzen._)

A slightly more interesting fact thing about the kitten now trotting through the side streets of Kingston Town was that, even when her body and soul had finished transferring from their respective dimensions (i.e. when she had finished reincarnating), a part of her would still physically reside in the Mew Mew Mew Mew-mew-mew-mew Mew Mew Mew dimension's statutory Mew Mew-mew-mew Mew Mew Mew Mew Mew-mew Mew Mew Mew Mew-mew-mew Mew-mew (The Universe Where Time Is Much Slower Than Can Be Considered Standard), as it is a known fact that cats age faster than humans and so, to preserve her 'real' human age in 'real' time, her reincarnated self would roam the 'real' world with one back paw in that particular reality until she had been resurrected.

And for _that_ to happen, the kitten had to find her _Mew-mew._ ('Papa', although a more literal translation of the original Cat is, 'That Bastard Degenerate What Spawned Me, Ho'; due to the limited nature of the Cat language, both tone and gesture play significant parts in conveying the true meaning.)

It was at this point that the kitten became aware of the fact that her right forepaw had gone missing. She became aware of this because, when she had placed one nonexistent paw forward, she had suddenly found herself performing an involuntary series of acrobatics which would put a circus seal to shame, but which nevertheless ended with her lying flat on her black back, three white paws and a pathetic black stump waving madly in the air.

"_MEEW!!_" she squealed, and promptly dove into a doorway. She cowered there for several minutes, which was long enough for the white paw to return with an air of apology about it. The kitten glowered at it, her little heart beating rapidly in her furry chest.

"_Mew mew mew-mew-mew mew _mew _mew?_" she asked it testily. _(And where exactly have _you _been?)_

In reply, a claw slid out of the furry sheath to lightly trace the following in the dirt-caked doorway:

_Apologies, most wise and infernal one, but it appears as if the molecular particles of which this shell is comprised are reluctant to leave the relative safety of the Mewmewverse. We are currently attempting to lure the shell away with catnip._

There was a pause in which the paw hesitated, its claw hovering uncertainly beneath its explanation. If it had breath, it would have held it.

The kitten stared a little longer before rolling her blue eyes.

"_Mew?_" she snarled; "_Mew mew mew, mew!_" ('…Well? Out with it, paw!', where 'paw' is spoken in much the same tone as 'slave' would be spat.)

These were the next words the claw wrote:

…_Er, there is currently no catnip in sight; perchance Her Infernal Highness could find some?_

"_Mew _mew," began the kitten testily, "_mew _mew-mew-mew _mew-mew mew mew-mew mew mew mew-mew-mew mew-mew-mew-mew mew-mew mew mew-mew!_" _(I _could, _if _somebody _didn't keep bugg'ring off to alternate realities every five minutes!)_

_Well, sor-ree,_

scrawled the claw sarcastically, and sulkily retracted, leaving the kitten cowering in the doorway for a little while longer, a ball of monochrome fur with piercing blue eyes.

"Well now, what's all this?" came a friendly, familiar voice. A figure—striking, feminine, elegant, almost regal—emerged from the shadows, her face shadowed by the scarlet-lined cowl, her dark cloak held protectively to her. (Even so, it still trailed along the ground.) The woman cocked her head, examining the whimpering kitten thoughtfully. The kitten turned her giant blue eyes upon her, and mewled.

"Oh, you poor _dear,_" said the woman, swooping down and gathering the kitten up beneath the folds of her cape. The kitten sniffed the stroking fingers, deemed then trustworthy, and curled up in the woman's hands with a mew.

"Paw went wandering off by itself again?" guessed the woman.

"_Mew! Mew…_"

"My poor little Melusinë," hummed the lady, stroking the kitten's head and sweeping onto a set of steps, dropping the kitten onto her lap. "Demon possession isn't what it used to be anymore, I'm afraid. All part of this damn enlightenment movement; faith just isn't what it used to be anymore."

The kitten poked her head from out of the cloak's folds in order to mewl a query. The lady listened intently.

"What am I doing here? Well I can't very well just sit around Hell letting your father oversee your transition, can I? You're my ickle babykins! And besides, it's not fair that Hornie should have all the fun on Earth; he has complete control over the Infernal Gates, you know. I had to disguise myself as an office worker on her fag break just to get pass!"

There was a pause as the kitten looked at the elaborate silk dress, the fur-lined cloak, the jewels, glittering in her coiled hair. Had she an eyebrow, she would have raised it.

"_Mew mew _mew?" she queried doubtfully. _(And it _worked

"Oh yes! Naturally. Nobody looks twice at a woman in uniform. It was _frightfully_ easy."

There was another silence in which the lady—who was either extremely demonic, or incredibly insane—tickled the kitten musingly behind the ears.

"…'_Mew mew'?_" _('Fag break'?)_

"Oh, yes; Hell has a very strict no-smoking policy; the smoke tobacco compromises the purity of the sulphur fumes," hummed the lady, thus proving once and for all that nowhere in the universe was smoking _not_ considered a social offence. The kitten nodded along, and nestled her head into the lady's lap, her eyes closing in content.

"_Mew mew mew mew mew mew mew-mew?_" the kitten asked hopefully between purrs. _(Will you help me find my Papa?)_

"Hmm? Oh yes, of course! Was _that_ what you were doing? Poor little Melusinë. Come along!" And she picked the kitten up by the scruff of her neck and very gently lowered her into a pocket, patting her furry head fondly. Thus prepared, the Kitten of Doom hitchhiked in the surprisingly roomy pocket of the Empress of Hell, and considering the true nature of both cat and, er, succubus, the unusual couple disappeared into the hustle and bustle of Kingston town with admirable nonchalance.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** A short chappie, but the next one is a long 'un (ten pages in Word and counting). Please accept the usual apologies along with the nonexistent bribe-muffin.

Hmm… What oh what shall I shamelessly plug now? Ah yes: Would anybody care to find out what Sierra's been up to? _(nothing but silence and crickets)_ …Okay, let's try this again: would anybody care to find out what Sierra thinks of the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ movies? At all? No? Fine. But, just so you know, lost in the unfathomable jungles of Fictionpress lurks a tale entitled _Mommy's on the Radio_ (Americanisms justified), in which Sierra is a film critic and… now that _would_ be spoiling it, wouldn't it? Anyway; it's there. It's lonely. It wouldn't mind an itsy-bitsy reviewsie, just on the prologue (the link can be found on my profile)…


End file.
